January 20th 2009: Part II

Moving on, today I debated Chris Carter in government. Our teacher thought it would be fun to put us up against each other because we were both on the debate team—never mind the fact that I had been on the team for four months and he had been on the team for four years. We were debating gay marriage. He was arguing in favor of traditional marriage, though he doesn’t personally agree with the argument. I guess that’s the problem with class debates, hey? Either way, he was still trying to beat me, if not for the sake of the argument, for the sake of his reputation. Ah, Chris. I won. I am happy about it, but at the same time I feel cheep. Chris was doing actual debate arguments (aka: gay marriage somehow leads to nuclear war/environmental apocalypse). But rather than stealing those impacts as I normally would, I appealed to the class and argued ‘no logical link.’ I don’t know. Well, actually, I think I did steal his impacts, but he insists that I didn’t. His argument was that allowing gay marriage causes dehumanization which in turn leads to nuclear destruction, and I said that not allowing gay marriage actually caused dehumanization “so I steal your impacts.” It happened pretty quickly though. It just doesn’t feel as good as I thought it would.

Exams start tomorrow. They were supposed to start today, but we missed last Thursday and Friday due to ‘cold weather.’ Whatever! This is Wisconsin! You’d think we’d be able to handle a bit of cold weather. Apparently not. I had to go an extra four days without seeing Damayanti or Sam because of cold weather!? Either way, exams were moved back. We still have Friday off, and then 7th and 8th hour are on Monday. Yay! An extra weekend to study for AP Chemistry! I’m not too bad at Chemistry, but any extra time would help. I’m exempt from government, since it’s my only semester-long class. Otherwise I’d be exempt from all of my other classes… well, maybe only math. I don’t think I can exempt myself from AP class exams.

Anyway, seeing as I haven’t written in this diary for a very long time, I am going to devote the next few pages to getting you up to date on my friends from high school (aka: everyone except family and friends that I made before my high school days).

January 20th 2009- Part I

January 20th 2009
Dear Diary,

Dream diary? Yeah, no. If I have a note worthy dream, yes I’ll record it, but, as you can tell from the year long lapse in writing, I’m not consistent enough to use this only as a dream diary, so screw that.

Today is history. I doubt I’ll even have to write this—as I should remember it pretty darn well—but here it goes: Barack Obama has just been inaugurated the 44th President of the United States. You know, last year I was seriously considering moving to Canada (to the point where I was seeing just how old I would have to be to earn citizenship on my own), but Obama has given me hope, a new found hope and pride, in America that I’m willing to work with. I really feel like some republicans are just stupid though. How could you seriously miss Bush? He screwed up the whole country and its reputation! Not to mention the fact that they liked Palin. Yeah, there’s someone I want running my country. Good Lord. Oh well. I know, I believe, that Barack Obama can fix America. We were watching the inauguration ceremony in my AP Biology class—well, the classroom. It was during our lunch period, so it wasn’t technically during class, and once lunch ended we had to turn it off. We talked about it for the rest of the hour though, so I don’t really understand why. Anyway, we were watching the inauguration and my friend Kelly pointed out that the turtle in the tank beside the screen was watching as well. We all decided that we loved that patriotic turtle because he was a fan of Obama. I feel so happy right now. This feeling is so much different from the feeling four years ago following the Bush-Kerry election. At that point I went to a Catholic school, and not that I think all Catholics are republicans (hello, look at me), but a lot of my classmates certainly were. And they simply would not let it die that Bush had been elected. But that doesn’t matter now. Today is history; the day after Martin Luther King Jr. Day. Tomorrow has come.

About “Tomorrow has come,” that’s actually in reference to the song “Tomorrow” from Annie. The musical this year is Annie, and I’m in the pit playing the clarinet, tenor saxophone and possibly bass clarinet. I was in the pit last year as well. That was the first year I was in it. I had wanted to be in it freshman and sophomore year, and sophomore year I almost got in… But I didn’t. It was really my fault that I didn’t get in; Mr. E. tried relatively hard to get me a spot. Either way, it resulted in my playing the alto saxophone (in a sad attempt to get myself a spot on something other than a keyboard version of the banjo), which resulted in my joining the jazz band, which resulted in my learning the tenor saxophone, which resulted in my getting a spot in the pit junior year. So it was all for the best in the end, I suppose. I am greatly looking forward to Annie, and though it wouldn’t necessarily be my first musical choice (West Side Story all the way), I’m sure it will be very, very fun.

Victor's Soliloquy

"You know, sometimes I find myself staring blankly forward, legitimately contemplating life. I find my contemplations to be rather negative. Frankly, the more I ponder them, the more negative they get. It's not that I'm contemplating life in general, or the meaning of life, just life. Mine, I suppose. It's not that my life is terrible, really, that I should end up thinking of it so dreadfully. I guess it's just suddenly starting to dawn on me just how long a lifetime is. People say it goes by quickly--which it does, I won't bother to deny. However, that being said, I think it goes by much more quickly when one is, for lack of a less cliche saying, having fun. A lifetime is a long time to be alone.

"I look at Patrick. Patrick doesn't care a snippet about anyone besides himself. I wonder how much if will hurt when he wakes up and realizes all that he's missed. I worry for the day when that happens. I worry that by the time he sees it, it will be too late.

"I look at someone like Woodrow, who wants nothing more than to have a family of his own, and I feel pained to think he may never get it. The towns are small, they're highly judgmental, and we're rather far away. I fear I may have doomed him to a life with only us. Us at the castle, that is. I know I won't be going anywhere, and I'm afraid that he won't be willing to just pick up and leave when the truth is finally revealed that sticking around with me could mean the end of his dreams."

A long silence followed.

"But dreaming never dies." Claudia's voice entered, like a cool breeze on a hot summer's day, a sweet release pulling him from his trance-like state. He looked up at her, into her bright green eyes, feeling a wash of water flow through him, putting out the fires of self loathing that had so suddenly brewed. He had completely forgotten she was there.

Never again.

Notes on Beautiful

Society has destroyed beauty. There seems to be a strange sort of paradox occurring in the world in which one can’t be beautiful and healthy at the same time—unless you’re an air-brushed actress who is seen with her clothes off relatively frequently. But at the same time, we do seem aware of this problem. Mind you, we do little to nothing in the area of fixing it, but we do seem aware. We are very aware that there are young people, mostly women, in the world who have a skewed body image of themselves. We give them diagnoses and put them into hospitals if necessary, teaching them to eat properly. The problem arises in the people who are never diagnosed because there isn’t technically anything wrong with them.

The problem resides in the people who are healthy but look into the mirror every morning with a slight sadness or disdain. They know exactly what they look like, there is no skewed body image and they are not changing their eating habits in any severely negative way. They may be dieting when they don’t necessarily need to, or running every morning in the hopes that their disdain may fade. These are the people who suffer from the horrible view on beauty yet who go unseen. The people who are pretty, and therefore unnoticed. The people who suffer not from anorexia or bulimia, but from a lack of self-esteem are the people who are suffering most in society today.

It’s a problem, and it needs to be fixed. Don’t ask me how, because I don’t know. I understand that the media may be the source—it certainly is one of the prime suspects—but which comes first? Is it really the media’s fault that as women on screen and paper got skinnier and skinnier, people seemed more and more interested in the people and mimic it more and more? Trust me, I would love to blame the media as much as anything else, and there is little doubt that the ugly progression of beauty was fueled by the media. But let’s face it; it’s not the media’s fault. The media cannot influence us unless we choose to be influenced.

I’m afraid I don’t really have much more to say on this topic. I know that my analytical inserts are usually at least 750 words long, and this one is barely over 400. What I needed to say has been said, so to say any more would be a waste of both our time. Until next time, and I apologize for the lack of writing (writer’s block isn’t fun); I will try to get my groove back as soon as possible.

Be careful where you step, young one; the water is only shallow for so long.

Notes on Music

I have found throughout the years that music teachers think that they can, for some reason, decide what is and is not music. Of course, the opinions vary from one teacher to the next, which, in itself, poses one of the key problems in their claim. Some teachers would die before calling Lady Gaga musical genius, while others cringe at the idea of Andrew Lloyd Webber being considered amazing. Some teachers don’t believe in the jazz clarinet; some don’t believe in jazz at all. Some teachers think that classical music is the only music worth a dime and that rap is not worthy of any recognition and should be wiped out. Is this a problem? My friends, this is just the beginning.

I think it is time that the definition of "music" be changed. True, the definition has stood high and proud for many years now, but imagine what life would be like if we all held true to rules and definitions hundreds, even thousands, of years old. Society changes all of the time, and with it should change definitions. Definitions should be used to decide what something is or is not in any sense beyond the purely scientific (though even this can be called into question as time continues). Definitions should be changed to allow things to be correctly called what they truly are.

I have heard it said that without music, we would not be civil, but like animals. I think this is a false statement. As a proud, fictional British man once said, "Any savage can dance." And though these words are cruel and demeaning, one can hardly deny their truth. The simple fact of the matter is that music keeps us leveled. With technology booming, it is hard for humanity to remember that is, in fact, animal. Music keeps us off of our high horse. Music attaches us to nature and our beginning more than any other human creation. Perhaps this is due to the fact that “any savage can dance.” Elephants in India can be trained like any 5th grader to play various instruments—mostly percussion—and in Jane Goodall’s camp, there was a chimpanzee who reached the top of his hierarchy by banging garbage tops together. Music is, plainly and simply, animal.

Music needs to be redefined. Music can be anything from Beethoven to Lady Gaga to the wailing of horns as cars drive through New York City on a very normal morning. Music should be considered to be any sound, or series thereof, that causes some sort of internal reaction in someone—anyone. Music is an expression of self. When you find a music teacher who can define each and every one of the students in their school using classical music, please let me know so I can give them an award for the most closed-minded person to walk the Earth.

Ignorance! Society is feeling a massive spur of ignorance! We think, we insist that we know everything. We pull out our dictionaries to prove other people wrong when we should be pulling out pencils and editing our dictionaries. Imagine what a better place the world would be if definitions were more inclusive rather than exclusive. We’re sitting peacefully inside our perfectly defined world, ignoring everything that goes wrong because our darned definitions. Redefining music is only the beginning. It’s time for change, massive change. But before we can change the politics and the laws and the tiny other insignificant details, we need to change the dictionary. So much be changed by typing a few extra lines into a book that’s too large for its own good anyway. At the point when views are being forced upon others with the dictionary, there is a problem.

Perhaps one of the reasons music programs are failing around the country is because people are getting so picky about what music is. There is little doubt in my mind that the true reason is because we, the younger generation, keep telling the kids younger than us that it is failing, thus resulting in them not really wanting to be involved, thus resulting in decline. BUT regardless of the true reason, I’m sure that more kids would be in band if every now and then we played a strong beat, heavy percussion section, and more kids would undoubtedly join choir if we could drop the Gregorian Chants for once and pull out some pop (and no, allowing pop songs in the top choirs won’t do the trick, guys). We need to reach out. We need to expand. I am a fan of, what I consider to be the new classics (Williams, Horner, Howard, Giacchino, etc.,) but I will be the first to acknowledge that anything usable for purposes of self-expression counts as music. If not to me, to someone else.

Music: a sound, or series thereof, that causes an emotional response in the listener or can be used as an expression of self.

At least then the teachers can’t tell us that we’re wrong.

The Woman Named Amy

So I met this woman named Amy. The situation had the strong potential to be extremely awkward. She and her boyfriend, my neighbor, were coming over for dinner with his two sons. But the thing is, her boyfriend is the ex-husband of one of Mom's best friends. I found myself trying, yet failing, to convince myself that I could truly, honestly like her.

She seemed impressed by me right off the bat. This was, by itself, somewhat surprising. My surprise was only to be built upon. The conversation was between my mother, Amy, and myself, and it turned to politics. Being sincerely impressed at the 19-year-old with not only an opinion, but one that could be reasoned and explained fairly well, I, for lack of a better phrase, blew poor Amy out of the water.

Finding myself somewhat captivated by this new woman who had not only faced family tragedy, but also done volunteer work in Africa and visited Italy some five times, I sort of followed her about the house, dancing between conversing and listening intently.

Through a series of chance events and encounters, I wound up alone in the library with that very woman. It had arisen earlier that I was floating in the center of three very different majors; psychology, film, and marine zoology (which apparently does not actually exist, so marine biology). She asked me how, exactly, I had ended up in such a position, seeing as the three are hardly related. Sure, film can go with either of those, but psychology and marine biology don't really have many over-lapping features. I explained how I had happened upon psychology via my grandfather. She then asked my how marine biology had happened. What was it that I liked so much about marine biology?

The speechlessness that ensued is impossible. I opened my mouth several times, feeling an answer of the tip of my tongue that was so completely imagery that I couldn't even begin to imagine how to describe it. Each time I tried to speak, my smile grew slightly larger. With a breath of almost exasperation, but far too joyful to be anything of the sort, I admitted defeat. I found myself talking about the most pointless things: my frustrations at humans interfering with marine life during "research," my thoughts being the exact opposite of my mother's "they sure are ugly things aren't they," upon the viewing of a Great White Shark. The more I spoke, the more I knew, the more I realized, the more I found myself saying, "that's probably what I'll end up doing."

It all fits together. The only thing that makes summer even mildly tolerable is the idea of sitting underwater for hours at a time. Mom often referred to me as a "sealy," the proper term for which is a "Selkie," because the seals at the zoo seemed somehow drawn to me--added of course, to the fact that I only ever came up from beneath the water's surface to breathe. Even when I was deathly afraid of sharks, and wouldn't dare sleep with any part of limb hanging from my bed for fear of it being eaten off, I was completely captivated and fascinated. I went whale watching with Mom while in Boston, and though I got sea sick and didn't see more than the lower backbone of a few Mink and Finn whales, I have never been happier (with a few rare exceptions--all of which you are aware)... Mom refuses to be truly satisfied until she has seen a humpback dive. I refuse to be happy until I have seen a whale dive from beneath the surface.

And thus, a conclusion was reached, and the only question yet to be answered it how.

Passion

All I have are words, yet speechlessness is all I can muster. The feeling inside of me right now is so completely undescribable, I can't even tell you how undescribable it truly is. It's a joy, an exhileration, a fear... an unbelievable fear.

It's like love--assuming, of course, that I was correct in interpretting this feeling as love when I felt it before. It's like beauty defined is second best... or even nothing compared.

Is this it? This must be it. I think I may have found my passion.Th question now is how to achieve it.

Ideas, anyone?

The Devil's Keep

You'll find inside the devil's keep
An angel who has learned to weep.

A heart does not just simply break,
It burns and tears and hurls and quakes.
A single step too far to reach,
But jumping is too far a leap
To sit beside the one who tore
And left it lying on the floor.
I find myself alone.

Apologies cannot describe
The horrors deep inside my mind.
I cannot turn the past away,
or it will fester, curl, and fray,
and I will never learn from this
that life cannot be simple bliss.
I find myself alone.

The road of friendship drives both ways,
and driving on those longer days,
one needs a hand to take the wheel,
when lids grow dark to sight conceal.
And now that I have fin'ly crashed,
And lying here upon the grass,
I find myself alone.

Apologies cannot describe
The horrors deep inside my mind
Where you'll find, inside the devil's keep
An angel who has learned to weep.

Sunlight

Sunlight filtered through the cracks around the edge of the window curtains. Christina Harris lay in bed, staring at the window, hoping that this new day would be better than the last. She heard the door open and knew that Charles had entered the room. Her body rose slightly as her husband sat on the bed at her feet. He said nothing. She altered her gaze slightly to look down at him. He too was staring at the window, no doubt hoping for the same thing.

"I won't happen, you know," she said softly.

"Yes, I know." He looked at her with a sad sort of smile, "But I can still pray for it."

She sat up. "What would they do, Charles, if they found out?"

His eyes grew wider and sadder as he turned to face the window one more time. "Let's not talk of this, Christina. It will do no good. I do not know what would happen, nor do I wish to. The less we speak of it, the less likely it is to be overheard." He stood. "You should come downstairs now. It is nearly time for lunch, and you and I both know I can't cook worth a farthing."

Christina nodded as Charles left the room. She looked back to the window, her thoughts returning to the conversation that had just ended. "But I can still pray," her voice said inside of her. She stood and walked to the window. She reached out, grasping the curtains.

She did not open them.

Conflicted

"Conflicted" is a word that comes to mind. Ordinarily I am not one to believe in all of that astrological mumbo jumbo, but there seems to be at least a relative amount of outside evidence. I seem to be suffering from mental confusion due, I believe, to mental conflict.

I am quite well aware that everyone uses both sides of their brain--ok, there are a few terrible exceptions, but the point remains--one side is usually dominant. I seem to be confused as to what side of my brain is dominant. I am right handed and right footed, implying that I am left brained; I can only wink with my left eye and, when driving one handed, drive with my left hand, which implies that I am right brained. I focus constantly on logic, try to have everything as organized as possible, and am extremely detail-oriented... but I'm also very creative. This leaning would say I'm left brained, but the test I took said I was right brained... just barely.

Is it possible that this is due in some way to all of that astrological nonsense? Is it possible that being caught between Aries and Pisces has had some devastating effect on my life and the way I am? Could that somehow explain why I would love to be a psychologist but see it as sacrificing everything I love to do?

I seem to be stuck in my own mind--wandering aimlessly in circles, having epiphanies that I had only a few years, maybe even months, before. I try to look at things in a different light, but I always seem to arrive at a conclusion that had already been reached at some earlier date. So what should I do? Should I become a psychologist or should I pursue film direction? Or should I try and achieve the impossible dream? Should I go for the shack in Rhode Island and sail around the world, shark diving all the way? Or should I stop thinking quite so much?

"Conflicted" is a word that comes to mind.

Dinner Conversation: Part II

Annie was, and always had been, terrified of her mother leaving and simply never returning. It was almost as though she remembered her father vanishing from her family map. Later in life she would hold this above her sister's head and claim that she had felt it happening from their mother's movements and heart rhythms, and that she was simply more in tune to people's emotions.

Isabella looked over at her mother, her eyes large. She didn't know what to say. She had been feeling somewhat conflicted about the young law student. Something about him made her uneasy, but at the same time, she felt almost impatient about seeing him again. Her mother seemed to feel her daughters eyes and turned. Isabella transferred her gaze quickly back to her plate. The food was still untouched. She hadn't had much of an appetite at all that day since meeting Mr. Raemon.

"We should look into it then," Poindexter said, deciding that Isabella was not going to eat her beef and plucking it off of her plate. "I know I would have no objection to the idea."

"I agree," Lana stated in a rather matter-of-fact tone.

Annie looked at her mother, horrified. "But he's not related to us! We've never even met him!"

"Anna Catherine, keep your voice down. We're going to look into Mr. Raemon as a potential sitter for you two, whether you like it or not, so if I were you, I'd learn to accept it."

Annie eyes dropped back to her food. Isabelle's heart lept into her stomach.

Dinner Conversation: Part I

"He attends the University, I hear," Poindexter said through a mouth full of food. "The law school. Political Science. Something like that."

"I don't see why he chose to live here," Lana snorted. "We're not very close to the University. I don't know that we can trust him."

"We don't need to trust him, Lana. He's just another neighbor. Unless you want him to watch the girls so we can get some alone time," he winked.

Lana smiled sweetly--too sweetly to be completely honest. Lana was in her mid-fourties with short-cut blonde hair. On most days she would dress in little more than a colorful cloth wrapped and draped over her. She always had a false sort of sweetness to her affect. Her boyfriend, Poindexter, had short black hair and very tan skin and a good twenty years older than his girlfriend. Strangely, he was just as unemployed as his young girlfriend. He also showed a certain amount of annoyance towards the girls, mixed in with a strong love. All in all, he seemed a bit conflicted. Both Lana had Poindexter had had children earlier in their lives that were, as far as any outsider or Lana's daughters knew, very much not a part of their lives at all.

"I certainly wouldn't mind having someone to sit for the girls every now and then," Lana smirked. "Maybe we should check him out. What do you think, girls?"

Isabella was snapped out of her thoughts at her mother's address. She looked over at Annie, who was blubbering, trying to concoct some reason why her mother should never look at any sort of babysitter.

Mr. Raemon

Isabella Winston laughed as she ran from her twin sister, Annie. They ran through the halls of the small apartment building, taking the corners quickly. They lived in a small, two-room apartment with their mother and her boyfriend. In their minds, their mother's boyfriend was, in fact, their father, as their father had vanished from their lives nine months before their birth. Ten years later, her boyfriend was all they could remember and all they had ever known.

Isabella could see the light streaming through the open door of the building. A grin spread across her face as she triggered a final burst of energy to speed her through the door. She ran through the door and turned hard to the right, skidding slightly and careening into a tall man. He stumbled backwards a little bit, accepting the blow to his lower body. Isabella jumped back and looked over at the man skeptically.

He wasn't a very tall man, but anyone of average height seems tall to a ten-year-old. He had a fairly large, hooked nose and his brown hair was cut neatly along his head, though the curls in it made it stand up slightly. He was dressed in a brown suit with a mint colored tie. A brown briefcase sat on the ground beside him, having been dropped due to the surprise caused by a small figure running into him at full speed. He seemed slightly distracted, straightening his suit. He stopped almost abruptly, as though suddenly realizing that there was a pair of large, green eyes watching him. He smiled. He had a lovely smile. "What's your name?"

Her skeptical look did not alter or flicker even slightly. "I'm not supposed to talk to strangers," she mumbled, wondering suddenly why Annie had not yet run out of the building.

"I'm Juan Raemon. It's a pleasure to meet you. I take it you live here as well?"

"I'm not supposed to talk to strangers," she said slightly louder.

Mr. Raemon laughed slightly, "Alright. Maybe I'll see you around the building." He gave her a slight nod, picked up his briefcase and walked into the building.

Isabella stared blankly forward, barely hearing her sister's voice ask her who the strange man was.

Doctor Archibald, Ph.D.

The whole castle shook as one of the doors burst open, forced by a dark green substance with the consistency of gelatin removed from the refridgerator two hours too early. The liquidy goo spread across the red carpet. walls, and ceiling in the study detailing how the door had failed to serve its purposed. A very short man, nearly half the size of a normal adult, emerged from the room, covered from head to toe in the green sludge. He wore large orange glasses that seemed to serve as a sort of compensation for the size of his actual eyes. His cheeks were large, his chin was doubled, and his body as a whole seemed much too large for small stature. He removed his glasses his his pudgy hand and wiped some of the sludge off of his forehead to keep it from sliding down into his beady blue eyes.

"Well that seemed like a success," Zachary groaned lazily from his chair.

"I doubt you could do much better, brainless oaf," the short man snapped.

The door to the study opened suddenly and Woodrow and Marcus ran in. "What happened?" Woodrow asked, nearly out of breath. His eyes revealed however, that the question was answered almost before it was finished being asked. "What was this, Archibald?" His tone changed from concerned to irritated.

"A cure... for Patrick," Archibald said, sounding frustrated. “Though I wish you would call me by my proper title. You make me feel so low, Woodrow.”

“When you gain the work etiquette of a doctor, I’ll consider it. As for Patrick, I was under the impression that Patrick was uninterested in a cure.”

“I sure as Hell wouldn’t be interested in a cure if he was the one making it,” Zachary tossed his head in Archibald’s direction.

“Shut up, you rotting corpse,” Archibald spat.

“Clean this up now, doctor,” Woodrow shouted over Zachary’s response as he turned on his heel and left the room.

Marcus

Woodrow sat in the brown armchair in his room reading. He looked over his book as the door to his room opened. A young man entered the room, his fiery hair spiked, giving it an even more fiery look than the redness already did. Woodrow sat silently and watched the young man sit on the couch next to the door. He looked somewhat forlorn, his eyes cast down, his elbows on his knees and his hands hanging loosely between his open knees.

“Marcus.”

The young man seemed to cringe at the sound of his own name. His head drooped lower.

Woodrow shut his book quietly and moved over to sit next to the young man. “Marcus, tell me what’s wrong,” Woodrow said warmly.

Marcus looked up just barely, his eyes slightly glazed. “She makes excuses. Bad excuses. It’s like she thinks I’m not even worth the effort. I don’t know what to do.”

“I can’t say I’m the best to ask for woman advice.”

“Who else would you suggest? As much as I love and appreciate the people in this house, there’s no denying that nearly everyone is off their rocker.” He looked up at Woodrow and met a somewhat annoyed gaze. “Look, Woodrow, I know that Victor is your best friend and whatnot, but he doesn’t get around much. I mean, he doesn’t leave his room until sundown and won’t dare go outside until the sun is completely out of sight. Whatever his reason, skin allergy or not, he never goes out during the day. and has probably never even seen a woman, much less ask one on a date.”

“You’re assuming quite a bit, Marcus.”

Marcus seemed somewhat skeptical. “Either way, you’re the one who wants a family.”

“ Marcus,” Woodrow said sharply, standing, “that is beyond the point. We are not discussing this any longer.”

Notes on Anything:

Anything; definition- any object, or matter whatever- to any degree or extent; at all something or someone of importance- any object, event or action whatever- in any way- anything but, not at all

Anything is everything is anything. So anything can be anyone can be anything, anywhere, at any time.

Any possibility is an endless possibility.

Any moment can cause happiness, can cause pain, can be seized.

Anything is anyone, is you, is me, is our future together, is our future apart.

Love of any kind can hate. Hate of any kind can love. Love is hate is love.

Any person, any place, at any given moment is doing anything.

Anything is happening to anyone at any time, anywhere.

Anything can be anything, and anything can change at any time to be anything other than the original anything it was. Anything can go anywhere, be anyone, do anything, so do it. Be anything.

As wonderful a fall back as 'anything' may seen, it isn't much good at catching. So don't fall. Jump.

Anything; definition- what we were when we were where we were; where we are when we are where we are; what we'll be when we'll be where we'll be.

Be anything.

Claudia Thatcher

The eyes opened to reveal bright green eyes. They looked frightened. The eyes flicked back and forth, examining the room around them with as little movement as possible. The room was very dark but for the star and moonlight shining through the open window. The entire room and everything in it was shades of grey—dark grey. It was a large room; a fireplace in one corner, a mirrored closet in the other, a door to some sort of outside balcony, a violin by one wall beside an arm chair beside a bookshelf, and a piano by the other wall. Arriving at the conclusion that the room was empty, she sat up.

“You’re awake, I see.”

Her eyes fell on the piano. The man sitting at it was so black and white himself that he blended right into the room. His skin was bone white, his hair was ebony black, and he was dressed in a black suit with a white shirt and grey stripped tie. Her heart began to race as she looked at him more intently. He looked almost dead. His eyes seemed sunken, surrounded with dark rings, and his expression seemed blank. She opened her mouth to speak, but no sound followed.

He stood and walked over to her. You’ve regained color, which is good of course.”

“Who are you?” she finally managed, barely a whisper.

“Victor Kinsey. I know it’s a bit redundant, but names are what they are.” He paused. Apparently her face expressed her confusion because he continued. “Victor means “victory” or “victorious,” and Kinsey means “victorious prince.” It’s a bit redundant. What is your name?”

She hesitated. She barely knew this man at all; however, judging from her memory, she owed this man her life. “Claudia Thatcher.”

The Stranger at the Gate

Night fell rather quickly--winter was setting in. Victor jumped out of bed, bursting through his bed curtains and crept over to the window curtains. He opened them cautiously, not sure that the sun had fallen far enough below the horizon to prevent some sort of reaction. Seeing the pink reflection of the sun in the sky, he pulled open the curtains and looked out at the snowy world around the castle. A movement below startled him. His eyes shifted downward. A figure was moving slowly, almost curiously towards the castle gate. Or maybe it was cautiously. Victor moved quickly, changing into his suit and flying down the spiral staircases to the first floor. He ran to the window and pulled the gold curtains back just enough so he could see.

"What are you doing?" he heard Woodrow ask.

"There's someone at the gate. I've never seen them before." He looked over at Woodrow with a smile. "Curiosity got the better of me, I suppose." He shrugged as he turned back to look out of the window, "I've always enjoyed having company anyway.

Woodrow stood beside Victor and listened as his friend described the intriguing being outside the gate. The figure seemed of average height and his hair was black and short. His skin seemed pale, almost blue. He looked cold. He stopped when he reached the castle gate, wrapping his fingers around the iron bars. He looked very cold.

It all happened rather quickly. The man's collapsed into the snow, his frozen body refusing to work any longer. Victor had his cloak and hat on and was out the door without much of a second thought. The sun, though down enough that he could leave his room, was not actually in a position that allowed Victor to go outside without consequences. He felt his skin begin to burn at an alarming rate. He ran to the figure, scooping his unconscious cold body up from the snow, and ran back into the house.

He fell to the floor, gasping for breath, still holding the cold stranger in his arms. Woodrow was already gone--running, no doubt, to the top floor to get Victor's allergy cream. Victor looked into the face of the stranger. It was a woman.

Dream- February 15th 2009

Sam and I were going to Prom together; however, he was going to be coming late because of a tennis thing. So I was there with Damayanti, who didn’t have a date for one reason or another, waiting for Sam. We were there barely any time at all, maybe 20 minutes, when Damayanti turned to me and said the dance was really boring and said she was going to leave. She took my hand and we left, I wanted to fight it, but I didn’t. I never saw Sam.

Then I was somewhere—I don’t remember where—thinking about how I hadn’t gotten a single picture, or what’s worse, I hadn’t gotten to dance with Sam. I thought to myself, “Well, there’s always next time.” My stomach dropped as I realized that I was at Prom, my senior prom. There was no next time. That was depressing to say the least.

Then, because my dreams like to change scenery quickly and without warning, I was in the car, being driven to school by Dad. Apparently we were both aware that there was some sort of construction going on up at school. Dad kept saying that he hoped they hadn’t made the building too modern—apparently that’s what was going on in most other places; over modernization, I mean. We came around the corner and saw the school. East was probably two stories higher than it was before the construction. Actually, it was all together larger. There was almost no space between the building and the sidewalk. All of the grass around the edge of the school was gone, and all of the windows were full-wall windows. The building looked as though it were made entirely of glass. There was a huge chandelier hanging in the main hall which now had a sort of marble flooring. I asked Dad how they managed to avoid the Hysterical Society with this one. The Hysterical Society is what my family calls the Historical Society because they have very strict policies on what can and can’t be changed on certain homes. I don’t remember Dad’s response (but the real life response would be that East isn’t in the Hysterical Society district). I got out of the car and Dad drove away. I looked at the severely transformed school and burst into tears. I kept thinking that I wanted Sam, I needed to find Sam. So continuing to cry, I began my search for Sam. I wandered through the school, having no idea where I was. I looked in all of the usual places, but the usual places were all very different. The student council room was now just a corner by the staircase with a single table and some chairs. I made my way down to the place where the band room normally is, and walked out of the doors that my family knows as “the band room doors.” I walked along the outside of the building, sort of balancing along the edge. I looked inside at one point and saw an elaborately decorated room, filled with circular tables covered in white table cloths. At each place there was a HUSH button signifying who was to sit where. I tried to look to see where Sam would be seated, but I could not make out any of the names. The dream ended before I found Sam.

Illness

Christina stood in the kitchen, leaning against the cold stove. Her eyes were shut tight, her stomach was knotted tighter, and a fowl taste sat in her mouth--a taste that she could not wash away. She felt herself growing more and more ill with each passing moment. Every fleeting thought resulted in the same churning in her stomach. She turned to face the oven, an empty pot before her, her mouth hanging open slightly, ready at any moment for the contents of her empty stomach to be forced upward.

The front door burst open, startling Christina. She spun around to see Charles walk in. He looked over at Christina, his eyes seemed sunk and the color in his skin was gone. He removed his hat and cloak quickly and ran upstairs, shutting the door loudly behind him.

She moved up the stairs quietly and opened the door to the bedroom slowly. She could see Charles' shadow stretched out silently on the floor. The floor creaked slightly as she stepped into the room, looking around the door to see only his silhouette against the moonlight pouring through the open window. He did not move. The air in the room was cold. She made her way slowly across the room. He seemed wholly unaware of her presence, his mind drifting off to other, less pleasant places. She stopped, standing behind him, and put her hands softly of his shoulders. His head turned slightly and suddenly from the sudden return to reality.

"Charles," she whispered, stroking the back of his head and neck gently. "Charles, you did all you could."

He turned to look at her, the tears welling in his eyes reflecting the moonlight. "Why wasn't it enough?" A tear began to roll down his cheek. "Why wasn't it enough?" He leaned into her embrace and silently wept.

Gah! Dangling Participle!

I'm afraid to say that I don't have much of a post today. I spent much of the day seeing if I could work with the Thatcher sisters and get them a part in the story they were supposed to be in (gah! dangling participle!). I did not succeed. As a result, today's post will be to simply tell any readers I may have, that the Thatcher sisters are no longer in the story, but will rather be replaced by Claudia Thatcher who, don't worry, has plenty of siblings to go around. I apologize to those of you following the story and assure you that I will get an updated installment with Claudia Thatcher as soon as possible.

William Clay

William Clay walked along the thin dirt road that followed the edge of Miss Carpenter’s land. He had spent most of the day planting. It was still somewhat early in the season, but he was confident that any frost that occurred would not penetrate the ground so deep as to harm the seeds. He looked over his right shoulder back at Miss Carpenter and Mr. Porter. He hated the sight of it. Edward Porter was an idiot. Sure, he was good looking, but that was no reason to fall all over him. He turned to face forward quickly as he saw Miss Carpenter begin to turn in his direction. This town was a joke. They called themselves Puritans, but deep down everything was the same as any other town back in England. People were limited by social class created by, usually, how much money they had or their position in society and occasionally their ability to express their faith without expressing it at all. Edward Porter, being the son of the only doctor in town, had a relatively high place in society, regardless of the fact that he would get no piece of the fortune upon his father’s death. Thus, no doubt, he eagerly chased after the fortune possessed by Louisa Carpenter.

Clay, however, was a farmer. He always had been a farmer and would remain so until he died. He didn’t remember much of his father. He had died when William was just a young boy when his father had died, leaving him and mother to fend for themselves. Though his mother worked as a seamstress as best she could, William had little artistic talent, and found himself better suited as a hired hand for whomever needed help with their farm work. Mr. Carpenter, Louisa’s father, had the largest farm in the town, and not only accepted William’s offer of assistance, but also bought him and his mother a small house just beyond the property line for ease of travel. William’s mother died from a fever a few weeks later. And so he lived alone in the small house just beyond the Carpenter property line and he worked on the farm every spring, summer and autumn that came and went for the next 15 years. His status in the society, though generally respected, was quite low.

Notes on Anything

Anything; definition-any object, or matter whatever-to any degree or extent; at all something or someone of importance-any object, event or action whatever-in any way-anything but, not at all.

Anything: The Ultimate Excuse. If used too many time in the presence of one individual, may cause anger, frustration and lack of understanding. USE WITH CAUTION.

Anything: The Ultimate Excuse. Anything; the perfect avoidance beacon from responsibility. When someone asks me a question for which my answer is clearly defined and may cause, shall we say, "controversy," my answer is 'anything.' "What should we do for dinner?" One of the most lethal questions a person could ever be asked. There is at least a 75% chance that the asked already has something in mind, so the answerer must be extremely careful on this unsteady ground. 'Thinking... dinner... thinking... not spaghetti... anything bu spaghetti.' "Anything." In my mind's eye it was decided that the likelihood that, of all available meals, spaghetti should be chosen, was so small that it would be better to appear indifferent. Of course, it works the other way as well. If my answer to the question is too particular, and therefore possibly open to ridicule, I will default to "anything." Anything is a fall back--a place to go when our fear of prosecution overrides our knowledge of freedom. Anything can go anywhere, be anyone, so anything, so why not fall back on it? It's so soft, so malleable, so open.

Anything: A Death Sentence. It's too open. As wonderful a fall back as 'anything' may seem, it isn't much good at catching. In fact, the result of falling back on 'anything' is nothing, which leads to back and neck pains. Ouch. 'Anything' must be used with caution. Answering the "what do you want to do in college?" question with 'anything' is a terrible idea. In an instance like that, answering with "anything" leads to follow-up question (which I personally despise and avoid at all costs). So now 'anything' isn't an avoidance beacon anymore, but a huge attracting beam. So unless you want the attention received during the follow-up questioning, avoid 'anything.'

'Anything' may help on occasion when you're in a tight spot, but don't use it all of the time. 'Anything' can be anything, and 'anything' can change at any time to become anything other other than the anything it was when it was first mentioned. Anything: The Ultimate Excuse, a Death Sentence, and the Most Dangerous Word in the English Language.

The Reason

My life is a constant stream of ridiculous ideas that often have no action connected to them. I am a person lacking in characteristics that are ecstatically significant. Beyond my ability to take just about any fictional “bad guy” and recreate them into a “good guy,” I’m nothing spectacular. I spend much of time in a fairly ordinary setting. There is nothing much happening. I’m alone in my room, sitting on my bed, with the boom box on my bed beside me, listening to something (probably J Williams or JC Superstar). I’m thinking of a story. I’m thinking of some elaborate plot, maybe with some romance, maybe just a friendship, maybe a story about loneliness and fear—something I think I’m not too familiar with. However, this is a problem. Often times, I am the only person who can solve a certain problem—or at least, solve the problem without causing some sort of cataclysmic reaction.

My greatest fault is silence.

I am a hero simply because I am alone. My friends are few and they mean everything to me. I make decisions based on others, but I act on them alone. I think of plots that will never become true stories to anyone but me. They will be lost in the elaborate fibers of my mind, never to be discovered by another creature. The stories will die with me and keep me company as I lie in the darkness of death. Perhaps they will become my heaven as now they are my haven. Perhaps they will become real and I shall be part of them. Or perhaps, as happens with the dreams of heroes, they will die. People may wish for their return, yet they will not come. As the world turns inside-out, destroying itself, and the people cry for inspiration, my thoughts will not arrive to help them. Why? Because I am afraid. I fear what people say and think and do. And so, I go into my room, shut the door and think by myself, to the brilliance that is music, and I let my thoughts die. Perhaps I am the villain. I am not a villain of action, but in lack there of. I am the character who sits silently in the dark corner, watching the protagonist destroy themselves, while fully aware of exactly how to solve the problem. I am the one who does nothing. I am the one who comes up with solutions yet tells no one the answer. I claim to be the hero, yet deep down I know the truth. I am the villain.

Spite

sitting in hopelessness, watching my life pass me by
staring in awe at the boy who has learned how to fly
dreaming that one day he'll reach out his soft hand to me
showing and glowing and flying 'till life has no need

wondering, pondering what made you seem so unreal
flying apparently means you have truths to conceal
words cannot say what I'm having the need to tell you
love hate confused in a world I don't know to be true

watching 'till the hope that I could someday learn to fly
inspires me so that I'm actually willing to try
landing in thornes that break me and cause me to bleed
Earth soaked in blood is not good for a new growing seed

watching you flying and wondring if it's worth the pain
holding it inside and causing my death from the strain
wasting away in a pain caused from something inside
go ahead, tell yourself, my ache will surely subside

sitting in hopelessness, watching my life pass me by
staring in spite at the boy who has learned how to fly
wishing that one day he'll fall from the sky down to me
and feel the pain that he caused with his "reality"

The Reverend's Wife

“Christina,” a voice said her name quietly. “Christina, come and eat something.”

She opened her eyes. It was still dark inside- but of course Charles would not have opened the shades while she was sleeping. She hadn’t even remembered falling asleep. Charles was kneeling at the bed in front of her.

“I’ve got some dinner in the kitchen. Come and have something to eat.”

“You’re probably the only man in town who can cook at decent meal,” she smiled.

“I didn’t say it was decent,” he smiled and kissed her quickly. “Come on. Put your hair up in case someone shows up and meet me in the kitchen.” He stood and left the room.

She rolled out of the bed. She took the black ribbon and tied her hair into a simple bun once again. She stood up straight and smoothed the wrinkles out of her dress. She opened the drapes to the bedroom and walked out to the kitchen. Charles sat at the head of the table smiling.
“You look wonderful,” he said in slightly sarcastic voice.

“It isn’t my fault all you Puritans won’t let me wear color,” she said quietly. She sat at the table across from him.

“Oh my,” his eyes were huge and he looked disgusted.”

“What is it?”

He looked at his plate and started laughing. “This is terrible, completely terrible.”

She took a bite cautiously. “You’re right. It is terrible.” She picked up her plate and walked over to take his. “I’ll see what I can do.” She walked to the oven. He followed.

“We were talking about it spreading before,” he said, just barely above a whisper. “All I can say is that I hope it doesn’t. You may be a reverend’s wife, but I’m a young reverend, and the fact remains that you are not a Puritan. That never looks good to witch hunters.”

“You think they’ll come for me?”

“I hope not. I don’t think anyone in town is aware that you are not Puritan, and the longer we keep it that way, the better off we are. Most people won’t even think to accuse you because you are my wife, and that’s just how it is.”

Braindead

The knock on the door could barely be heard above the woman’s giggles and shrieks of pleasure. Zachary froze, listening for a second knock. It did not take long for the woman beneath him to realize that something was wrong. She whispered in his ear, asking. This time her voice could be barely be heard above the knocking. “Damn it,” Zachary muttered as he climbed off of the woman. “You remember what I said about the castle owner being a stickler?”

The woman nodded.

“Yeah, well he’s back now, and he’s at the door, and he’s also a cold-blooded killer, so I think you should get out through the window while you still have a chance.”

The woman’s eyes widened with fear and, grabbing her clothes from the floor, she ran to the nearest window and began her nervous climb down to the ground.

Zachary opened the door. “Really, Victor? That was number 5 for this week.”

“I should be the one saying ‘really,’ Zachary. When did I become a cold-blooded killer? “ He looked out of the window at the partially dressed woman running frantically into the woods. “I doubt she’ll ever be coming back.”

“That was the goal, Victor, so I call it a success.”

Victor spun around to face Zachary. “Tell me, Zachary, what exactly do you plan to do when a child shows up on our doorstep? It’s bound to happen one of these times.”

“Well any mother who leaves her child at the doorstep of a supposed cold-blooded killer has some major issues of her own,” Zachary said, ignoring Victor’s hard glare. “Either way, I’d just give it to William. He’s the one who wants a kid so badly.”

Victor sighed an exasperated sigh. “You’re an idiot, Zachary. Simply an idiot.”

“And you’re a stuck up, cold-blooded murderer who lives in a huge castle and only ever comes out of his room at night. I’d rather be an idiot.”

Miss Catherine

Margaret Thatcher woke suddenly, realizing with a start that her window was open. Pulling back the sheets and jumping to her feet, the freezing air swept over her. She hurried over to her window, closing it and latching it shut quickly. She rushed back to her bed, dove into it and pulled the sheets back up, wrapping them around her neck. She closed her eyes in the rediscovered warmth, trying to fall asleep yet again.

A knock on the door prevented her from achieving her hoped goal.

Climbing out of bed again into the freezing air, she wrapped her cloak around her as she went to the door. Her sister appeared in the doorway from the other room, shaking her head. Acknowledging her sister's presence silently, Margaret opened the door. Before her stood a fairly tall, well built man with elegantly brushed blonde hair standing before her. She sighed, "Hello, Richard."

"Good morning, Miss Margaret. Is Miss Thatcher in this morning?"

"I'm afraid she is not, Richard." She lied. "I'll be sure to let her know you stopped by."

"I don't suppose you could be so kind as to tell me where I might find her? It is terribly early--she should not be walking alone."

"I'm afraid I have only just awoken myself. I do not know where she is," Margaret lied through her teeth a second time.

"I will check the town. She could not have very well gone anywhere else."

Margaret smiled sweetly and shut the door. Pausing a moment for Richard to leave the building, she turned to her sister. "You know, Catherine, Richard is a very good man. You'd do very well to be with a man like him."

"Then you take him. Lord knows I don't want him. He's as thick as a brick," Catherine smirked.

The Greenhouse

The air in the greenhouse was wet and thick. White lights hung from the ceiling, shining through the plants, creating the sort of green glow in the room. The plants swayed slightly as though brushed by a breeze, but there was none to be felt. Patrick moved gracefully between the various flowers and ferns, touching each lightly and whispering to them. He seemed to almost be asking them about their health rather than actually checking. He wore a white lab coat, making him look very much like a doctor. The greenhouse door creaked open, startling him. He jumped behind a nearby plant, removing his eye-attracting lab coat.

“Patrick?” Victor’s cool voice said, muffled by the plants that absorbed the sudden burst of sound. “Patrick, William is worried about you. He says you refuse to leave the greenhouse. Is everything alright?”

“Victor, I’m busy. Go away,” he responded coldly and blatantly. “Nothing is the matter besides the fact that I can get no quality amount of work done without everyone in this god forsaken castle thinking something is wrong.”

“Yes, of course.” Victor sounded disheartened. “I won’t disturb you any longer. We just thought that maybe you needed help adjusting to—”

“Go away, Victor!” Patrick shouted, remaining still behind the plant. He waited until he heard the creak as the greenhouse door closed and clicked shut. He stood slowly—checking to make sure Victor was truly gone. He put the lab coat back on and returned to attending his garden, trying to ignore the green glow that seemed to radiate from his skin.

Notes on Procrastination

You can ask anyone why procrastination is a good thing, and they’ll most likely say “I work better under pressure”… yeah, that’s a load of bull. And then you’ll run into the upstanding, straight A, valedictorian student who says, “Procrastination isn’t a good thing”… also a load of bull. To be honest, I don’t know what is up with today’s society that is so obsessed with deadlines. Deadlines are important sure, but they are dead, so what are they going to do to you? Exactly, they can’t do anything. They may postpone that promotion a bit, but worse things have happened. Procrastination never sounds like a good idea. Missing a deadline is a horrible feeling. It’s the stomach churning, gut wrenching feeling that everybody just loves. But think about it. Would you rather miss the deadline or your daughter’s fourth birthday party? At first the answer is obvious: the birthday party. After all, there’s only one deadline, and she’ll have other birthdays. However, she’ll only ever have one fourth birthday (which cannot be pushed back with a simple request written oh so eloquently and e-mailed off to your boss) and, as much as I hate to say this, there is no guarantee that she will have another birthday. The odds are low, yes, but they are still there.

The biggest waste of time is not procrastinating. No, I don’t mean that the biggest waste of time is a single something other than procrastination. Read the sentence again, put an emphasis on “not,” and you’ll see what I mean.

Procrastination is living. Think about it. If you finished everything right away, what would you do with all of the extra time? Don’t know? That’s funny, because I don’t either. The thing about procrastination is that it inspires you to do things you wouldn’t normally do in the attempt to avoid working. Maybe that’s what sucks so much about college. Even with 17 credits, there’s only so much studying you can do before your brain explodes, and if you don’t procrastinate, I can guarantee that while everybody else is studying in a rush at the last moment, you will be sitting in your dorm room, flipping a coin 300 times to see if heads or tails will win (it’s tails, by the way). Or maybe you’ll play solitaire on your computer, switching every third time to real cards for the excitement of the sudden change. Or, as I have found myself doing when immersed in total and complete boredom, 467 games of minesweeper at the highest level (none of which will be won, of course). Life is boring without procrastination. There are no desperate attempts at avoiding work and there are no desperate attempts to finish work in time. Procrastination is what makes life worth living.

I don’t mean to condone procrastination. There is little doubt that it can cause major problems—especially related to school. In any do-or-die situation it is generally a better idea to finish something ahead of time and give yourself a good day or so to review and make any alterations. However, that math homework can wait until 10:00 at night. Think of all the things that can be discovered when trying to avoid doing something. People try things that they never before would have thought to try when they’re trying to not do something else. Ideas for stories arise from the fabrics; a to-be-favorite TV show is brought to attention; the perfect plot for world domination is formed and about to be carried out when suddenly foiled (by someone else procrastinating who thought it would be cool to try and be a super hero for one night). Sometimes it is in those moments when we are desperately searching for some form of occupation that we find our future careers. We may discover our one true passion that would have flown well under the radar had we actually done whatever it was we were supposed to do exactly when we were supposed to do it. Any of the arts are like this, I think. Very few people discover their love of art by doing a homework assignment. The same goes for musicians. If it doesn’t, I think it should. I don’t think any musician should decide to be a music major because they just loved playing scales.

Procrastination is a good thing, despite its ugly reputation, and I think if people spent less time worrying about when things are due, maybe they could live a bit more. More time would be spent with families, eating proper meals, resulting in a healthier country. People, I think, could be so much happier if they just came to realize that the work day has come to an end, and now it’s time to relax… until 11:00 when you remember that one thing.

Nightfall

Victor stared up into the darkness, his ears straining to hear the tolling bells of each hour. There was little doubt that by this time his mental clock was quite accurate. And getting up earlier would be, though rather unpleasant, not a disaster. At long last he heard the bells begin to chime. Counting slowly in his head, nodding with each soft tone, a slight smile spread across his lips as he reached seven. He stood up on his bed and pulled the heavy black curtains open. He stepped down from his bed and opened the curtains of all of his windows, the soft moonlight floating into the room. He glanced across the room into his mirror, straightened his black and grey tie and left the room.

"Victor!" he heard a warm voice call from the room next door. "I thought I heard someone opening curtains." A fairly tall man, with soft white skin and dressed in shades of brown emerged from the room. He smiled a smile that was nothing short of contagious. "How's life in the dark, my friend?" William was a very warm person; he was friends with everyone in the household. However, he would forever and always claim that Victor was his best friend.

"Dark," Victor said in a sort of half smile. "How is everyone else?"

"Well enough. I won't bother to deny that I miss having you around during the long hours of the day, but work makes it somewhat easier. The Doctor has been locked in his room for the past few days, running various experiments that make my skin crawl, coming out only to eat or play a few rounds of poker. Patrick refuses to leave the greenhouse at all, which is extremely unnerving given" he paused," circumstances. Zachary is as brainless and frivolous as ever, and lately Marcus has been calling one particular person repeatedly and asking them over--they never say yes. You know the definition of insanity as well as I do." He sighed. "It would seem that this, right now, is the most logical, intelligent and sane part of my day."

Victor laughed. He put his arm over William's shoulder, "Well that's never a good sign, is it?"

1000 Words: Part III

I also happen to believe that psychology is the greatest thing ever. And unlike you, whose goal in life is to make money and a name for yourself, I want to help people. If you want to shun me for that, so be it. If you think that this friendship cannot survive because I want to help someone conquer their fear of flying so they can visit their friend across the country, then I don’t think I need it. I’ve been advised not to put an ultimatum on this, but I am fed up with your attack on my personality. I value your friendship, I really do. Most of the time I greatly enjoy our conversations, but it is times like this, when you insult who I am and what I long to be that I wonder how much I really need it. You like to pick out random traits of mine and condemn me for them, saying they are the reason Kelsey never speaks to me anymore (who is also studying psychology, I should remind you). I know that my personality has flaws. Whose doesn’t? My sense of humor has been called cruel, and, due to a lack of general intelligence, I like to prove my intelligence where it exists. You do it as well, with your large words and explanations that rarely fall short of 20 words. Quite frankly, I am sick and tired of people who assume things about me because I say that I am studying psychology. I question things. I question everything. Searching for answers is my favorite thing to do. Call it a loss of faith if you want, but don’t fool yourself into thinking that I will ever change for you. I like my imperfections.

I also need to congratulate you. This is second longest letter I have written. Mind you, you’re nowhere near close to the winner of that prize, nor should you think that you ever shall be. Your ratio of words wasted on me to the words I waste on you is also quite impressive. 15-20 wasted for 1000 is really something.

Goodbye.

1000 Words: Part II

Perhaps it is you who needs to open their mind. Perhaps you need to understand that creativity, faith and imagination do not require that honest belief in things such as fairies or decision-altering machines. Isn’t it just a tiny jump from not believing in folklore to having no creativity? Just a week ago you were commending my creativity as I told you that I was re-opening my pity for Satan. I get a bit skeptical on your fantasy world and you start tossing around insults like hot potatoes; how many can you hit her with in a single statement?

I always question things. I never accept a doctrine as complete truth until it can explain itself beyond “there’s no evidence to disprove it.” Yeah, well there’s no evidence to prove that the Flying Spaghetti Monster doesn’t exist. I was asking you questions out of sheer curiosity, making you question yourself. “The unshakable faith is the faith that is shaken.” And honestly, I find it extremely offensive that now that you have finally noticed how much I question things that you think I have lost my creativity! You think I have lost faith! Do you really want to know what I believe? I believe that Jesus Christ was born of the Virgin Mary, conceived by the Holy Spirit. I believe that beyond that, humans are foolish to think that they could ever be intelligent enough to wrap their heads around God. I think that anyone who truly believes that they understand God and what his wishes are is a fool.

1000 Words: Part I

For he whose disdain for noncreative passion is reaching ever more a status of unforgivable,

I cannot apologize for anything I said Tuesday night. Truthfully, I think that if either of us should be apologizing, it should be the one of us who not only insulted the other’s personality (which is not any different, believe it or not, from what it has been for the past 15 years) and major, but also their grandfather; a grandfather whom you have never met and perhaps should not judge quite so quickly.

I hate, truly, truly hate people who, just because they have encountered a few psychologists or psychiatrists in their time, think that they know everything about all psychologists. I guess it’s nice to finally know how you truly see me. Maybe I hit the nail on the head and you don’t like that. Maybe you feel that you made some grievous mistake in your past and you don’t want to accept that it influenced your present and future. Either way, I found it cruel of you to decide to bring psychology into our conversation in such a cold hearted manor.

I find it tactless for you to insult not only my major and my grandfather, but what I want to be. There are certain lines that you should not cross, and insulting my aspiration is one of them. I was under the impression that intentionally insulting someone’s dream is not the best way to go about something. But then again, you’d probably kill for a spot in history. I want nothing more than to help someone, even just a single person, in my lifetime.

Does the desire to question somehow imply a lack of creativity or faith? Because I do not believe that fairies exist, because I have doubts and fears about heaven, because I believe in evolution (which had nothing to do with psychology by the way) I have lost my creativity? I find it strange that you are so quick to condemn me. You seem all joy when I question my own faith and all but when I question yours. For years you called me a cynic, and I’ll admit that by your falsified definition it cannot be denied, but when reality is forced upon you, perhaps you will come to realize that I am merely human.

The Man

The man was the eccentric sort. He was too tall and too skinny, and his hair was too full and too dark for his age. He stood in a slight hunch, more due to the fact that he probably wished himself shorter than because he could not hold himself upright. He wore a suit typical of a man of his profession- black with a white shirt and a black tie. Physical examination was, if anything, fruitless. By looking at the man, one could tell little of anything about him. Of course, the permanent scowl planted upon his long drawn face said something to his personality. For indeed, his smile appeared more as a barring of teeth than an actual smile.

For My Valentine

When blindness conquers those around,
and truth cannot be seen,
When trust is lost in clouds of blue,
and hidden lies convene,
When justice drowns in pools of blood,
and life has lost it's worth,
You'll find me waiting, shining bright,
high above the earth,
For I alone and you with me
have fought injustice's crown,
And traitor at us they will call,
when axe comes falling down.
When light and life and love betray
I tell you dear, my sweet,
It was for you I gave my soul
an act I would repeat
This truth for you, my sweet divine,
Froms yours alone, your Valentine

Notes on "Moving On"

Sometimes it takes more than just deciding to move on, and that’s where the dilemma occurs. I have heard, and no doubt you have heard as well, that it is so much easier to get over someone when you meet someone else. The problem is, when the mind is so thoroughly pre-occupied with that past someone, it’s rather difficult to find the replacement someone. Not to mention the fact that most people don’t like the idea of dating someone simply as a rebound. In most situations, people don’t like to blatantly, consciously hurt others.

It dawned on me one night, that perhaps the only way to truly get over someone is to cut them off completely. This, however, also creates a problem. In my case, this person was a friend, my best friend, and I am anything but willing to throw that away just so I can “move on.” Frankly, I think that moving on is over rated. The trick is not to “move on,” but to accept. No, those are not the same thing.

Quantifiably speaking, moving on is the easy way out. How is that quantifiable? I have no idea; I just wanted to say that. But seriously now, moving on is easier than accepting. The thing about “moving on” is that it’s very similar to forgetting. Just throw person A on the back burner and pull person B forward. Easy, fast and involving very little effort, moving on seems to be the ideal solution. And while “moving on” may be the ideal solution in terms of speed, there is severe questioning as to how ideal it is in terms of duration: hence the idea of a “rebound.” The “rebound” really does sum up quite nicely what “moving on” is. It is a brief period during which one’s focus has been voluntarily and forcibly transferred from a person of the past to a person of the present. Notice the lack of “person of the future” in that definition. The “rebound,” as many people know, serves one, and only one purpose: to help you “move on.” Honestly, though, what does a “rebound” do but make you temporarily glad you are no longer with that person of the past, only to make you miss that very person at the end of the relationship?

Acceptance is, of course, considerably more difficult but more rewarding in the long term. Acceptance is easy until word reaches your ears that your former is no longer as alone as you are. So why would anyone choose acceptance over the apple-in-the-basket technique that is moving on? The thing about acceptance is that it gives any chance of a possible sustained friendship, well, a chance. Acceptance is simply deciding that you are ok with the decisions made by either party to end a relationship or, as is significantly more painful in my opinion, to never start one at all. It is accepting the fact that there is someone else out there for them and, more importantly, someone else out there for you. I would love to tell you the steps to reaching this acceptance, but I cannot. See, the thing about acceptance is that everyone has to take their own road to reach it. So, not only am I yet to discover my road, but there is an entirely different road that must be taken by you.

Ok, now for the complete honesty. I think acceptance and “moving on” are both complete shit. Yes, I said it. Both of those words were chosen by people who never had to accept or move on from anything. The kind of people who married their high school sweethearts, are still happily married, and have friends whose lives are something less than perfect. It’s the kind of advice that is only received from friends in an extremely happy situation. Think about it, when did a friend who was going through something at all remotely similar to you ever tell you to “just accept it and move on;” which I think is my favorite phrase. Just accept it and move on. Was there ever a colder way to tell someone you care? Quite frankly, the whole thing is just a joke. The truth of the matter is that you will probably never truly get over the person from your past, but you will find a person for your future. Eventually the future will be the present. As much as I would love to assure you, being an idealist romantic, that the person of your future will be the person from your past, it simply cannot be. Life is not a movie. At times it may seem like it is—especially because there’s always music playing—but it’s not.

Perhaps the better term, better than acceptance, better than “moving on,” is giving up. Giving up isn’t always as horrible and dishonorable as people make it out to be. Maybe it’s time to give up.

Look to the sky, take a long, deep breath, and fall back into the grass, never to rise again.

"When two people like each other, they try"

You can't say I didn't try. We've known each other four years and started out hating each other. By the end of senior year, we were almost inseparable. Obviously some trying had to go into that.

You are not disposable. You are one of the best friends I have ever had. You always listened when I needed to talk, you always gave advice when I asked. But I felt like you needed me to be weak for you. The moment I stood up on my own, you shot me down and claimed I was making assumptions about you. That combined with the fact that I could never help you with anything going on in your life. I could comment, but only if you stooped low enough to tell me what was going on, and only if I agreed with you.

One fight would not normally be enough to end it. We've had disagreements before and it hasn't done anything. It was the subject, the way you responded to MY stating my opinion and the messages afterward that--from my point of view--had an overtone of "I don't care anymore." It was a series of things, followed by a series of revelations, followed by a series of conclusions, followed by a series of actions.

I couldn't tell you sooner because I didn't even realize it. Long story short, if you thought this friendship was worth saving, if you saw me as anything more than a car-ride to get to a swing set, you would have done something more to try to save it. I apologize for any accusations that are going into this last paragraph of explanation, but this is what I'm seeing. And why I'm even bothering to explain this to you, I don't know. I guess I still haven't completely given up on the hope that you would try, just this once, try for me.

I'm sorry it had to end like this, but if this is how it has to be, I guess this is it. The truth is, you aren't anywhere near disposable to me. I was just hoping, stupidly hoping, as the typical idealistic romantic would, that maybe I was worth enough to you that you would fight it. That you would stoop down to my level and try. But I guess I was wrong. And now we are both reminded of why the idealistic romantic is also, always a pessimist.

Every Day: Part III

He tucked the skeleton key safely back into his inside pocket and made his way across the main hall. The sound of screeching nails rang through the prison yet again. He watched as the table appeared in the center of the hall. He could hear the prisoners coming. He reached out and plucked a grape from one of the grape-filled vines. Upon hitting his tongue the grape dissolved into nothingness. Feeling a strange sense of partial satisfaction in achieving what no prisoner had managed to do—getting the food to his mouth—he sat at the head of the table.

He watched again, as he did every night, as the prisoners fought over the food that they could not eat. He watched the pushing and the shoving with a feeling of detachment. One by one each of the prisoners gave up as they did every night. The chain reappeared around their ankles and he guided them back to their cells, locking each one inside with the same skeleton key. He finished locking everyone up and began his way back to the main hall. He paused outside the skeleton’s cell. It was curled in the corner weeping.

He continued to the main hall.

Reaching his hidden room at last, he removes his cloak and fell to his knees. The weight of human tire seemed to drag on him as he fought the urge to close his eyes. It was that figure. The figure would haunt him whenever he became so tired that he closed his eyes. The moment his consciousness began to slip, the figure would appear. That figure was one of the only things, if not the only thing that he truly feared. She had done something terrible. What she had done was unknown to him—he did not actually know the reason explaining why anyone was locked in the dark—but it was terrible. She would lie in the corner of her cell, moaning, almost weeping, her knees pulled up to her chin. Every time he passed her cell she would scream and leap at him, clawing at him through the bars. It did not take long for him to realize that he should never, under any circumstance, release her from her cell. It made no difference, however. She was the only prisoner ever to have escaped from her cell.

Every Day: Part II

He went to his desk and sat down. He stared at the marble swirls of the desk and drifted away mentally. He was tired from the eternity without sleep, but he would not sleep. He could not sleep. After some time of sitting in the dark, staring at the dark, he opened the top desk drawer and pulled out a candle. He lit with the hot, blue flame that lit all of the candles. It gave almost no light, seeming to almost draw in light rather than emit it. He stared into a flame. His eyelids were heavy and he felt his head beginning to slowly sink. He stood abruptly. He needed to get his blood flowing. He needed to wake himself up.

It happened at about the same time every routine when he would make his way through the mines, walking slowly, his hands folded neatly behind his back, inspecting, so to speak, the work of his laborers. Some of the newer laborers would stop and stare, turning back only to find that someone had greedily stolen their picking spot.

He was partially through the mine when a loud clanging sound rang repeatedly through the various halls and chambers that made up his prison fortress. He spun on his heel and walked quickly back to the main hall. A hole had opened in the ceiling and a black stone staircase had been lowered down. A figure was wandering down it—as they often did—looking back up the stairs, thinking there was no way this could be the correct staircase. He walked up to the figure. It was a woman. She was remarkably beautiful, and upon seeing him, she seemed to turn on a sort of charm.

She leaned in close to him and whispered in his ear, “So what now?”

It seemed like a rather strange way to introduce oneself, especially if the goal was to “get to know someone better.” She let out a gasp of delight as he grabbed her wrist. He walked her quickly down the prisoner’s hallway, her excited giggling fading quickly as she realized what was happening. She screamed as they passed the skeleton figure who clawed after him as they walked by, and by the time they had reached her cell, he was almost literally dragging her across the floor. She cried and screamed and she struggled to get away. He pushed her into the last open cell (there was always a last open cell) and locked the door with the skeleton key. She reached out to him, getting hold of his suit coat and pulled him close.

“Don’t worry. You’ll be released soon enough,” he said softly.

Her grip loosened and he was gone.

Every Day: Part I

The screech that marked the morning snapped him from his depressive trance. The screeches that ensued were worse than the night before. Some prisoners seemed to have some renewed sense of hope that they would find their silver today, other screamed because of the pain the “bell” cause on their ears, others screamed because their neighbors were screaming. He moved quickly across the main hall. He grabbed the chain from the wall just outside of holding-hallway’s arch. Almost all of the prisoners stood with their arms stretched out toward him as though he had not abandoned them in their cells the night before, leaving them with only the darkness to keep them company. He walked to the end of the hall, his ears numb from the screaming and began to unlock one cell door, clap the chain around the prisoner’s ankle, and then move on to the next cell. The chain grew gradually longer as he clapped it around each prisoner.

Losing count of the cells, he came to one without a door. He was confused for only a moment, but the moment was long enough. The skeleton figure flew at him, clawing at him through the gates. He tried to step back, but the thin hand had grabbed his wrist and it pulled him over with all its strength. Reaching under his black cloak, it tore at his bleeding wings. In a flash of silver and blue, the figure was thrown to the back wall of the cell and he, his eyes burning with blue fire, was continuing down the hallway, unlocking, locking, unlocking, and locking again. The prisoners were wild from the excitement; He was just the opposite. He clapped the prisoners into his chain with more ferocity than before, his blood boiling.

Finally finishing, he pulled the chain. The prisoners began their trek out of the hallway and into the main hall. Once the final prisoner was through the door, he yanked the chain. With a loud snap the chain broke free from all of the prisoners, they all cried in pain, and then they began to run towards the small door that led to the “silver” mines. He stood in silence and watched as the prisoners shoved their way through the small door. They were mining for gold and silver that did not exist. Their greed kept them going. They did not question the words of their lord, who was so kind to release them from their cells so they could dig for their key to freedom. After they were all inside, working towards a nonexistent goal, he turned away and walked, slowly as ever, bypassing his throne, to his small, hidden room, where he would wait for the second screech signifying the end of their “work.”

Blakely

"I need to talk to Reverend Harris," Andrew Blakely said quietly to his wife as the congregation began to filter from the church. "I won't be far behind you."

His wife, Josephine, nodded. She left the church and moved rather quickly back to their house. She had left the stew cooking and was somewhat eager to get back. As much as she would love to say that she had listened to every word that the reverend had said during his sermon, her mind had been much more pleasantly occupied. She entered the house and went immediately over to the stew. She lifted the wooden spoon to her mouth, testing the stew. It tasted rather bland. She knew what to do about it, but she wasn't sure it would be such a good idea. Hearing crackling leaves outside, she waited a few minutes. She looked out the window briefly and tossed more crushed leaves into the pot, stirring them vigorously so they dissolved quickly.

"What are you up to over there?"

The voice startled her and she spun to see its owner. Deep down she already knew to whom the voice belonged, but such reactions are instinctual. She would already know in her mind that the man speaking was Andrew before she came to see him face.

He was looking at her curiously. "I wouldn't advise doing that when Reverend Harris is here. With everything going on in Salem, we don't need you acting suspicious."

She did not know how to react to such a comment. "I doubt that Reverend Harris would ever think such a thing, Andrew. I thought you needed to speak with him."

He smiled slightly. "No, I don't think he could." He walked over to his wife, kissing her softly on the cheek. "And yes, but he was speaking with Mr Lawrence and I'll see him tonight. It can wait." He reached down and took a sip of the stew. “You’re a master at the stove. I’m not surprised.” He squeezed her hand, second guessing kissing her a second time. “I suppose I should read some passages for you.” They separated, their hands holding as long as they could manage.

The Prince Never Sleeps

He collapsed onto the stone slab that served as a bed. He stretched out in the dark, feeling a sense of power sweep over him. Every now and then he would remember that he was a ruler. He was the lord and master of Hell. How many angels could claim that? He turned onto his stomach, letting his black wings fall open on either side of the slab. As he closed his eyes to sleep, he felt nothing but pride.

Her body resembled more of a skeleton than an actual human. Her cheeks were caved in, her eyes sunken; every bone in her body could be seen. The icy water dripped from the top of her cell onto her boney figure. The water’s source was unknown. She let it pour over her until she was just wet enough to slip her arm out of the cell and pick the lock with a bone. The source of the bone was unknown. She opened the cell door just enough that she could slip through. She climbed up the wall like an insect, moving quickly and silently above the cells until she reached the archway. Slipping through archway from the top, she scanned the room for guards—unaware that he and he alone, was the guard of the inescapable prison. She dropped silently to the floor and dashed across the room to the throne, slipping silently into the hidden doorway.

He was sleeping, his wings rising and falling with each unnecessary breath. She crept up to the slab of stone and looked him over. He was a remarkably good looking man. Though he looked a bit famished and slightly dead, his coal colored hair was cut perfectly, and his pale skin created a glorious contrast between his skin and his black hair, black attire and black wings. She stared at the wings in envy. She lifted the sharpened bone above her head and thrust it downward into the back of the sleeping prince. His eyes bolted open and his mouth cried out a silent scream. She dragged the bone through his back, across his wings, snapping the brittle bones within them. He lay in shock as she leaned forward and whispered insults and threats in his ear. She returned to her business, stabbing the immortal Prince of Darkness multiple times, breaking brittle bone after brittle bone in his wings.

After what seemed ages, and very well may have been, she finished. Stepping away from her victim now covered in blood. She smiled at the sight of his body lying limp. It happened in the blink of an eye. He was suddenly behind her, holding her hands tightly behind her back. She struggled against him, but the water on her hands had long since dried and she was unable to escape. He walked her down the hallway as she screeched, ignoring the trail of blood, putting out each of the blue candles as he walked. No one would see him like this.

Measures were taken to ensure her never escaping again. The leak from nowhere was sealed; the door on her cell was removed. The wounds on the prince healed, though his wings remained a shattered mess, constantly dripping blood. He would fold them flat against his back and cover them with a black cloak. As far as the prisoners from then on would know, he had no wings.

Notes on Loneliness

Loneliness is possibly the worst feeling I have ever felt. It is easily the hardest thing to deal with- especially when the key to dealing with it is at the time living some 762 miles away and in a different time zone.

Honestly, I don’t know how men do it. They always have to be tough and independent. To admit loneliness for a man is like admitting that you’re homosexual. In other words, it could be worse, but it still sucks, and your friends give you funny looks. I could be wrong, but I’ve always been under the impression that men don’t confide in each other the way that women do. Men always seem to have a sort of pent up anger inside of them that they can’t get out. Maybe it’s because they’re lonely and they can never admit it.

The hardest thing about loneliness, I found, was admitting it to me. It was an acknowledgment of the hole inside of me- the hole that I could not fill. And perhaps the strangest thing about loneliness was that even after I admitted my loneliness to my closest friends, even after they promised me that all would be well and that I wouldn’t be alone forever, I still felt alone. I had been reassured that I wasn’t alone by the simple fact that my friends cared enough to talk with me. Yet still I felt alone.

Loneliness is hard to describe, probably due to the fact that I was never actually alone when I felt the feeling most acutely. I always had my roommate, my three best girl friends and a guy friend. My sisters were not far away, and my mother was always up for a phone conversation. This was how I discovered that there is one cure for loneliness. The cure may change over time, but at any given moment, there is only ever a single cure. That single cure is a person.

I think loneliness is also due to jealousy. I hate to admit that I have felt jealousy towards my friends, but to claim anything different would simply be a lie. Each of my friends had someone they could turn to who was fairly nearby. My cure was half-way across the nation, living an hour ahead of me, and busy beyond belief. In reality, the loneliness didn’t hit me until I realized the directions we were heading in. I realized that with the work schedule my cure was leaning towards, they would have almost no time at all to talk with me. I realized with a pained revelation that I was going to lose them.

Perhaps loneliness, while also being that empty feeling in the pit of your stomach that you somehow know is not hunger, is also a fear. It is a fear that things will never be how they used to be. “No matter how we try, we can’t go back,” as Margaret Hale said in BBC’s version of North and South by Elizabeth Gaskell. Loneliness is a sort of ache. It’s an ache of heart, body and mind. I think loneliness and depression, as they do not go hand in hand, are often confused with each other. My sister, unaware of everything that was going in my life at the time, knowing only the fact that I didn’t like the school I was attending, diagnosed me with depression. Not serious depression, of course, but depression nonetheless. At that point, I would not say that I was lonely. The loneliness was kind enough to join me later in the year- about two and a half weeks later, to be precise.

Loneliness can be conquered to a point. It can be ignored, pushed aside by other work. It can be channeled into more useful things- such as stories that all of your friends say will be published, but deep down you know they never will, because you don’t have the courage to do it. Yes, loneliness can be pondered over and deeply analyzed like this, but personally I would not advise this method. Thinking too much on any given topic had proven to have very negative side effects- especially if you’re as bitter a person as I am. Also, listening to sad music is probably not the best solution. The best advice I can give is that you find your cure. Hopefully they will live in the same time zone as you. If not, do your best with what you can. Fight through every three days and be saved by them just before it all comes crashing down.

Be careful where you step, young one. The water is only shallow for so long.

October

Louisa sat up quickly. Something had woken her, but she hardly knew what. A crack and a thud rang through the morning air. It sounded as though it were right beside her. There was little doubt in her mind as to the cause of the sound. She climbed out of bed quickly, put on her shoes and grabbed the broom as she rushed out the door. There was a group of raccoons that seemed insistent on getting into her house through the wall. They had been coming back day and night, throwing things at the wall, scratching the wall, and everything else of the sort. She had had enough. She walked quickly around the house, holding the broom tightly in her hand. She came around the corner to the back side of the house and say William Clay standing at the old stump, chopping wood.

She froze. "Mr. Clay."

He looked up. "Miss Carpenter, good morning." There was a moment of silence. "Oh, I'm sorry, Miss. I hope I didn't wake you. The wind shifted last night; I think it's going to get very cold very quickly now, and I wanted to get you some fire wood."

He seemed to realize suddenly that she was standing before him wearing only her nightgown and shoes, her hair falling over her shoulders and being blown slightly by the light breeze. She was, by the standards of their society, as good as naked. She remained frozen before him in disbelief. She had had no intention of being seen by anyone but the raccoons that apparently were not present. William moved quickly, removing his cloak and handing it to her, his eyes turned away. He heard the sound of footsteps and, knowing that she was no longer there, dropped his arm to his side, his eyes looking into the pale yellowish green grass.

Christina Harris

She walked slowly back to their house in the woods. Spring was just beginning to blossom, despite the thin layer of frozen precipitant covering the ground. The smell of pollen could be smelled through the rainy dew with each soft cool breeze. There was little doubt in her mind that there would be a storm later in the day. When she was sure she was out of sight, she removed her bonnet. She closed her eyes for a moment and imagined herself back in Pennsylvania. She continued on her way to the house, her holding in her hand and simple wooden rosary. She brought it with her to every service, holding it tightly and in the folds of her skirt so it would not be seen by anyone sitting nearby.

Entering the small wooden house, she walked over to the corner table where the family bible sat on a stand, open to that day's scripture passage, and placed the rosary behind it. It could not be seen, really, unless someone was looking for it. She walked up the steps leading to the very small second story and sat down on the bed, yawning. She was tired more from boredom than from lack of rest. She looked out the window at the forest outside, waiting for Charles to return home. It was a miracle she had convinced Charles to accept the dinner invitation from the Blakely's. She did not see it as inappropriate. She promised they would discuss God, making the dinner itself also devoted to Him. Clearly it wasn't too much of a problem if the Blakely's had invited them in the first place.

Charles was so up tight about these things.