An OLD Poem

Living like everyone's watching
Dancing like no one's watching
Living the dance
Dancing to life

Writing like everyone's reading
Reading like everyone's writing
Writing of life
Living to write

Writing...
Reading...
Dancing...
Living...
Being...

Me.

Poem-- "The Angel"

–A Parody of "The Raven" by Edgar Allan Poe–
Once upon a morning dreary, came the women, weak and weary,
Passing many a quiet and curious person, heavy hearts and sore–
While they trod on, nearly tripping, suddenly there came a ripping,
As of their broken hearts ripping, ripping when they saw the door–
"Why is the stone," they cried out, "missing from the Savior’s door--
Missing from our Lord’s tomb door?"

How frightfully worried they were, that His body might be stolen;
And each eye, tear-stained and swollen, cast a glance within the door.
Eagerly they wished to see Him,–vainly they had sought to find Him
Within the tomb, so dark and dim–dark and dim within the door–
But their sweet and sacrificed Savior Whom the angels do adore–
Would be found there nevermore.

And the silken, sad, uncertain rustling of each frightened woman
Thrilled them–filled them with fantastic terrors never felt before;
So that now, to the eerie sounds they listened, to the eerie sounds
Within that hollow mound, the women listened, looking through the door–
Their Lord would not be found; His death clothes and nothing more–
Clothes and sounds and nothing more.

Presently their hearts grew stronger; hesitating then no longer,
"Let us," said they, "look a little closer; let us this tomb closer explore;
Lest our hearts for all the ripping, and our souls the terror gripping
Might send us to our own graves, to join those who went before."
Thus they entered the darkness, seeking Him they did adore–
Darkness there and nothing more.

Then with might and thunder, with power and glory and wonder,
In there stepped a stately Angel straight from heaven’s golden door;
The women collapsed, trembling weak; all too terrified to speak;
There stood the Angel, there within their Lord’s tomb door–
And spoke he to them, "Fear ye now no more: Christ the Creator,
Once dead, is dead no more!

"Judah’s mighty lion," said the Angel, "was and is ruler over Zion,
Rejoice: He has conquered sin and death; they shall reign no more–
It is as the Father had said: Jesus Christ is risen from the dead!
Go now, and tell all you know: sin and death are conquered evermore–
Christ is alive, now and forever. Go and tell, and rejoice evermore–
"Rejoice," said he, "evermore!"

Christians rejoice today, when you greet each other, say,
"Christ is risen; He conquered sin and death; they reign no more!"
Go now, and tell all you know: Christ lives now and forevermore
Go now, and tell all you know; Go and tell, and rejoice evermore–
Rejoice in the Lord forevermore!

Short Story--Chasing Cara

"Dean, when you finish with the tack room, please muck Cara’s stall and bring her in for the night. Manuel and I are going down to the Co-op before it closes."

Dean stuck his head out the door of the tack room. "Sure."

"Remember: she gets extra protein tonight."

"Right."

"Fill her water trough, and put the hose away before you leave."

"Yup."

"Oh, and brush her down."

"I will."

"And please be careful: she’s very fragile; we don’t want to spook her."

"I’ve been here long enough, Grandpa; I think I can handle it."

"We’ll be back in time for supper."

"Seeya." Dean rolled his eyes and finished sweeping. His grandfather knew just how to annoy him. ‘‘Muck her stall. Give her protein. Fill her water. Brush her down. Don’t spook her.’ Dean knew the routine. He had spent the last two months learning how to care for his grandfather’s horses, and he had learned which horse was the favorite. Dean couldn’t figure out why his grandfather thought the horse was so fragile: she was the most spirited horse in the barn. He shook his head as he exchanged the broom for a shovel and a rake.

When he reached Cara’s stall at the far end of the barn, Dean found that the stall door wouldn’t slide open. He set the tools aside and, placing both hands on the vertical bars of the door, he pulled. It didn’t budge. He stared at the stubborn door.

"What I need is some WD-40."

Dean loped back to the tack room for a can of the lubricant. With the nearly empty can in hand, he returned to the stall. Dean used every last drop. Setting the can aside, he took a deep breath, grasped the bars again and tugged with all his weight. This time the door waited only a moment before giving way to the force–crushing Dean’s thumbs as it slid into its resting place.

Dean screamed and fell to the ground. It took several minutes for him to calm down, but he eventually stood up, snatched his tools, and mucked the stall. Still muttering at the door, he mixed the feed and filled the water trough. When he stepped outside to turn off the water, he noticed that the sun was nearing the horizon, so he turned on the lights before heading for the far pasture.

As he passed the fields, Dean wondered why his grandfather didn’t make his hired help fetch Cara from the far pasture. Why did he make Dean work at all? He had enough Mexican immigrants working for him: he definitely did not need Dean. The only reason Dean was there was that his mother didn’t want him. She said that she simply could not afford to support him, but he knew that she had sent him away because she couldn’t stand him–he was too much like his father, right down to his six-foot-football-player’s build, wild brunette hair, and dark brown eyes. His father–well, his father was a no-good drunk who left his family for a life of immorality.

‘A life of immorality.’ Dean shuddered. He was beginning to sound like his grandfather, who was always preaching at him. It had only been two months, but Dean had already received enough sermons to make up for the years that he had skipped church. He was tired of being lectured on how to become a "responsible, self-controlled, self-supporting man of God." He knew he was doomed to follow in his father’s angry footsteps. Why didn’t his grandfather just give up?

When he reached the gate, Cara was waiting for him. The dappled chestnut beauty shook her head at him, throwing her golden mane into the rays of the evening sun. For a moment, Dean stood in awe of the splendor of the beast before him, but the impatient horse whinnied at him, waking him from his stupor. As Dean unlatched the gate, Cara lowered her head. He slid the lead around her brawny neck, slipped on the bridle, attached the lead, and led her out of the gate, closing it behind them.

The Mexican-Americans had all disappeared by the time Dean and Cara made it to the barn. Dean led the horse into the wash stall to brush her down. She submitted to the attentions until Dean put the brushes away and took the cross ties off her bridle. Intent on the dinner that awaited her, Cara led the way to her stall, stopping only when she had reached her door. When Dean opened the door, though, she refused to go in: instead, she stood with her ears back and her eyes wide open, staring at the water trough. Dean tried to pull her in, but she refused to move. Glancing at the water trough, Dean realized he had forgotten to put the hose away.

He laughed. "You stupid horse, it’s just a water hose!"

Dean reached into the stall to pull the hose out. As soon as he touched the hose, Cara screamed and reared back, ripping the lead out of his hand.

Dean didn’t notice the searing pain in his palm as he watched the beast tear through the field and disappear into the nearby woods.

‘‘…and put the hose away before you leave…’ Apparently his grandfather’s favorite horse was afraid of hoses. His favorite horse–his favorite horse that was now flying through the woods!

Dean dropped the hose and ran into the woods, yelling her name. "Cara! C’mon, you dumb horse!" He ran up and down the tree-cluttered hill, but he couldn’t find her. The sun had just dropped below the horizon, and the earth was growing dark and cold. Finally, he sat down on a stump, his massive chest heaving.

"What in the world,"he wondered, as he gasped for breath, "am I going to do? I’ve lost my grandfather’s favorite horse. He’s going to kill me! I’ve got to find her." It was fully dark when he got up from the stump and resumed his search.

"She’s got to be around here somewhere," he muttered. "She’s huge–where could she hide in eight acres of trees? Cara! I didn’t mean it–I didn’t know! Please come back!"

He searched the woods for what seemed like hours, but he searched in vain. He tried the barn, hoping she had come back for her dinner. She had not. As Dean stood in the door of the empty stall, he heard his grandfather’s pickup truck on the gravel driveway.

Dean couldn’t move as he watched his grandfather pull up beside the barn. He watched Manuel jump out and begin unloading the truck. He watched, until his grandfather noticed him.

"What’s the matter, boy? You look sick."

"I–"

"Yes?"

Dean’s football_player body collapsed in a heap on the floor.

"What’s wrong? Where’s Cara?"

Dean pointed at the hose at his feet.


"Tell me what happened, Son." His grandfather’s voice was firm, but gentle.

Dean sat up and told the story, leaving out the incident with the WD-40. "…and I searched for hours, but I lost her. And I know I should have been more sensitive, and–"

"Did you check the far pasture?"

"What?"

"Did you check the far pasture?"

"No, but I closed the gate: she couldn’t have gotten in."

"A frightened horse can do many unbelievable things. Put that hose away and follow me."

While Dean put the hose away, his grandfather grabbed a bag of molasses horse treats. Hose in place and cookies in hand, the men began the journey to the far pasture.

After a few minutes, Dean ventured to speak: "So–why is she afraid of the hose?"

The older man cleared his throat. "She is afraid of snakes, and anything like them."

"Why?"

"A couple of years ago, a friend of mine had just bought a mare when he found out that he had bought two horses for the price of one. Unfortunately, he didn’t know anything about raising horses, so he didn’t take the best care of the newborn Cara. One night, a snake got into her stall and bit her. He brought her to me the next day, saying he couldn’t afford to call the vet."

"And you convinced him to let you keep her."

"Yup."

The men had reached the far pasture and, sure enough, there she was, wide-eyed and stock-still. Dean watched as his grandfather coaxed the frightened creature with his low, gentle voice. Eventually, Cara allowed herself to be led back to the barn, munching on treats all the way there.

With Cara safely in her stall, Dean and his grandfather walked back to the house.

"You’ll groom her tomorrow."

"Yes sir."

"And Dean–"

"Yes?"

"Please be careful: she’s very fragile; we don’t want to spook her."

Short Story--Cold Coffee and Poetry

The sharp north wind nipped at Lydia's ears and nose as she shut the car door. The sun had long since given up on the little town square, and had gone to bed. Most people were tucked away for the night, snuggled close together against the bitter wind.

Lydia's tall, slim figure cast thin shadows on the sidewalk and buildings as she passed the street lamps. She strode purposefully to the cafe on the corner, and stopped a moment in front of the large glass window. The small brick building could hardly hold the cafe: its smell, music, and warm light seemed to seep onto the sidewalk. Lydia glanced around the small lounge. Only the Friday-night regulars sat in the mix-matched furniture.

"No Chris," Lydia muttered. "Surprise, surprise."

With a sigh, she reached for the cold doorknob.

"Hiya, Lydia," John, the owner, greeted her before she reached the espresso bar.

"Hi, John." Lydia said.

"How are you this fine evening?" John asked as he expertly flipped the steamer into a metal pitcher of milk for an extra-hot-double-shot mocha latte---Lydia's usual.

"I'm fine, and you?"

John snatched a cup from the dispenser and scrawled Lydia's name across the side. He grinned as he said, "I'm peachy-keen!"

Lydia shook her head, mockingly rolling her eyes at him. When John handed her the latte, she wrapped her long fingers around the cup and glanced to the back of the dimly lit room. Her favorite chair was empty, so she sat in it. With her back toward the painted brick wall, she could easily watch the window and door at the same time. She nestled into the overstuffed green chair and waited.

This was where Chris had asked her to be his girlfriend. He had been so nervous that he had spilled his water---twice---before he finally asked her out. Lydia shook the thought from her mind. Much had changed. Too much.

"Hey Lydia, where's Chris?"

Lydia jerked to see who had interrupted her thoughts. It was Julie, John's wife of two years, and her best friend since childhood. "Oh, he's um--" Lydia glanced at her watch. "He's late."

"Not again. Oh, you poor girl!" Julie sat on the arm of Lydia's chair. "What are you ever going to do with that boy?"

"Well--"

"Hold that thought, Lyd, I have to go help John at the register."

Lydia sighed. What am I going to do with that boy? She had thought she was in love. Chris was the nicest guy in the entire college. He was quiet, smart, and very handsome. She had been delighted when he asked her to meet him at John's Cafe. That was a year ago. At first, they went out at least twice a week, and he gave her poetry every other day. She loved the poems: she kept a folder full of them. Their phone conversations were fewer and shorter now, and last time she checked, it had been 3 weeks since he had written her anything.

Julie returned and sat in the chair beside Lydia. "so. What are you going to do about Chris?"

Lydia glanced out the window. "I'm going to dump him."

"Why?"

"I've had enough of it." Lydia sipped her latte. "He never writes, he never calls, he's always late, he's always too tired to do anything, and he won't even talk with me about what is bothering him."

"Is it really that bad?"

"Yes. He's never been able to keep a secret from me--and now he won't tell me what's wrong, and it's driving me crazy. For all I know, he's found some other girl to love him."

"Do you really think he'd do that?"

"I don't know. I hope not, but I don't know. All I know is that he is acting way too secretive, and I think we'd be better off as friends, at least until he figures out what he's doing."

"I think you ought to try to talk to him first, Lyd."

"I've tried."

"I think you should try again."

"I'm tired of trying. He won't talk to me. He's always changing the subject. My mind is made up. I can't take this anymore."

"You're going to regret it, Lyd. He's---"

"Such a good guy. I know, I know. Everybody keeps saying that---and I guess I know it too. I just don't know why he's suddenly acting so strange. I guess I just---well, I don't know. I just want to be alone right now, while I wait for him."

Julie patted Lydia's shoulder and went to brush the sugar off the counter.

As one of John's customers opened the door to leave, the north wind rushed in. Lydia set her coffee on the dark, coffee-stained wood table next to her and buried herself deeper into her chair. From the small speaker bracketed to the wall above her head, Lydia heard a familiar song. "I'll have able Christmas without you. I'll be so blue just thinking about you." She loved that song: it was from her favorite Christmas special. When they came to the cafe for a date during the holiday season, Chris always requested that John play it. Lydia sighed. At least John remembered--too bad Chris didn't.

Lydia watched the steam rising from her cup. Chris really was a good guy. She loved him, and she knew that her parents adored him. So what was wrong with him? And why was he keeping it such a secret? Could it be a family problem? Probably not: Chris and his parents got along well, and he didn't have any siblings. Was he---was he faithful to her? Could he possibly have found another girl, perhaps a prettier girl? That would explain why he had been canceling dates, not calling as often, not writing poetry, and so dreadfully late all the time. In fact, it made perfect sense: why else would he be putting distance between them?

Lydia shuddered, both at the the thought and at the obstinate wind which had sneaked in again. Lydia did not even bother to see whether it was Chris coming in the door: she could hear him coming.

"I'm sorry I'm late."

Chris stood beside her, out of breath and shaking off the cold. Lydia turned at the sound of his voice. She caught his eyes---they had dark circles under them. Was that from staying up all night on the phone with some sweet little brown-eyed brunette? Or was it from spending all his time writing sonnets to a smart and sprightly redhead? She turned away from him and studied the coffee-bean design on her cup.

"Lyd---I can explain it all to you."

"You don't need to explain anything," snapped Lydia, "I know exact;y what you've been up to."

"What?" Chris frowned. "How did you find out? Who told you?"

"No one told me. I figured it out myself."

"Well, I guess I really can't keep secrets from you, can I?"

"I guess not."

Chris tried to laugh, but it died in his throat, so he cleared his throat instead.

"Well, I wrote a poem for the occasion."

Lydia glared incredulously at him. He wrote a poem? To tell her that he had found a new sweetheart? The nerve! Chris did not see the glare: he was fumbling inside his jacket, looking for the poem. When he finally found it, he handed it to her sheepishly and sat down in the seat next to her.

Lydia took it and shifted over in her seat, away from him.

"What's the matter, Lydia?"

"I think you know perfectly well what's the matter, Christopher."

Chris raised his eyebrow. "Actually, I don't know. I didn't expect you to get angry about this."

"You didn't expect me to get angry? Why shouldn't I be angry?"

"Well, um," Chris stammered, "I had hoped that you'd be at least a little please about it, I mean, since we've been talking about this for a while now---"

"We've been talking? No we haven't! You haven't talked to me about anything for almost a month now!"

"Well, I was trying to keep the actual date a secret---"

"Actual date for---?"

"For when you read the poem you're holding in your hand. Aren't you going to read it, Lyd?"

"Why should I, when I know what is says?"

"Do you really know what it says?"

"Of course I do: I'm not stupid! You've fallen in love with some other girl, and this is my goodbye poem, and I won't read it."

Chris raised his eyebrow and cocked his head. He studied her face for a moment then began laughing.

"What is so funny?"

When Chris had calmed himself, he said, "Lydia, please. Won't you just read the poem?"

"Why should I?"

"Because I wrote it for you."

Lydia glared at her coffee cup. It had long since stopped steaming.

"Please."

Lydia unfolded the paper. She read it quickly, stopped, and read it slower. She looked up into Chris's eyes and started crying.

Chris got down on his knee before her. He tenderly picked up her left hand and held it. She was sobbing now, and begging for forgiveness. He waited a moment for her to regain her composure.

"Now will you let me explain?"

Lydia nodded, wiping away her tears.

"I have been talking with your parents for the last several weeks, planning this night. I worked for what seemed like ages to write that poem for you: I wanted it to be absolutely perfect. I am sorry that I haven't called or written as often as I normally do, but I was afraid that I would give it all away. I have also been picking up every possible shift at work so that I could afford to buy this." He pulled a small, black-velvet ring box out of his jacket. "Will you forgive me for misleading you, and for slacking off on my poetry?"

Lydia nodded.

Chris opened the ring box and held it up. "With that settled, Lydia, will you please marry me?"

The cafe had grown quiet. Lydia glanced up to see that all the regulars were perched on their chairs listening, and that John and Julie were watching her.

"Do you promise you'll never write poetry for any other girl?"

"I promise."

Lydia slid out of her chair and wrapped her arms around his neck, much to the relief and joy of the entire cafe.

"I will."

Description of a place

I walk in the door, and immediately I smell it. What is it? It is the smell of a mixture of Elmer’s glue, chalk, paper, pencils, and whatever chemical they use to clean the floors. Everything is shifted lower, to compensate for the shorter eye levels. Bright colors and name tags are everywhere. All of the chairs, desks, and easels are labeled in clear block print. The chalkboard is lined with the alphabet, and the walls are covered with posters about colors, shapes, and character. A large window and a door take up the wall opposite the door that leads to the hallway. Outside the window, and freshly painted, stands the old jungle gym. Monkey bars and swings, seesaws and something to climb on, and the grandest slide that gives an easy escape route from the mini tree house—all waiting for the children to arrive.

Musing

Dark rain clouds dominate the sky. I must go to work. I stand at the full-length window, watching the ominous clouds roll in like advancing troops. I was hoping to wear my suede leather coat today. Oh well. I run downstairs, hoping to beat the rain. I make it inside Griffith without so much as a drop. As I clean, the clouds keep rolling in. Soon, it is so dark out that I have to check the clock on the wall to be sure I am not too early. A deep rumble sounds from the corner of the sky. It sounds like C. S. Lewis’s Aslan is purring. The air conditioning in the building drenches my neck with cold moisture, and I feel like I am already in the cold rain that is sure to pursue. Aslan roars. I shudder. Please give us sun–warm, cheerful sun–please! Aslan resumes his purring. I keep cleaning. The clock shows it is time to leave. I walk downstairs, praying all the way that the rain will never come. I clock out. When I get to the door, all is silent outside. The dark clouds continue to dominate the sky, except that there is now a rip in the blanket, allowing the sun to shine right through, warming my shoulders.

Point of View--Luke 2

Paraphrase of Luke 2:8ff (Shepherds’ point of view)

We had just set our tents for the night, and we were deciding who would take the first shift of watching the sheep. My brothers were all especially tired, so they chose me. I love being the youngest son. Anyway, I found a boulder among the sheep and sat down. It was going to be a long night: I could pretty much bet that all of my brothers would be too tired to take the next shift. But that was fine with me. I would rather sit out under the stars, in the beautiful quiet of night.

I was sitting through the second shift, just as I predicted I would, when something very curious happened. The dark sky started growing lighter. I knew I had not been sitting on watch long enough for it to be dawn already. I was frightened. I had heard stories of flaming objects falling from the stars that destroy entire villages, but I had never seen one. And I didn’t want to see one. But before I had time to run and find a nearby cave, a mighty voice—louder, deeper, and more musical than I have ever heard before or since—called my name.
I was still frightened, so I ran back to my brothers, nearly tripping over their sleeping forms in my haste. When they had all woken up, I told them about the fire in the sky and the voice. At first, as they were shaking the sleep from their eyes, they didn’t believe me. Then I heard my name again. We all turned.

Beautiful and terrible, strong and somehow encouraging, a messenger from God stood in the sky looking on us with a gentle smile. All five of us manly men fell to the ground in a heap of frightened humans.

He spoke. "Fear not: for behold I bring you good tidings of great joy which shall be to all people."
His voice stirred my heart. It made me want to weep and shout; it made me feel strong and yet weak. As I listened to him, I wanted to slip off into sweet sleep all while feeling like I was prepared for battle.

"For unto you is born this day in the city of David, a Saviour, which is Christ the Lord."
Could it be? Our Saviour come at last? My people had been waiting for the Messiah since the dawn of time. Could this messenger, this angel, could he possibly mean that He had finally come? It did not even occur to me how absurd it was that the Messiah would come to Bethlehem–of all places!–I was in so much shock that I did not think of much else.

"And this shall be a sign unto you: Ye shall find the babe wrapped in swaddling clothes, lying in a manger."

When I heard this, since I was already prepared for battle, I knew it was a command to search for the Holy Child. I stood straight, and proud that my God had chosen me for this duty. The angel was joined by countless others and they all sang praises in their wonderful, majestic voices. My brothers were as shocked as I was at first. I had to waken them from their stupor, but once I had, we did not even argue about who should go find this child: we all went.

Dialogue

"Never, Sir?"

"Never."

"But Sir–"

"There are not ‘buts’ about it, Henry, it simply will not happen in my business."

"What about my right to free speech?"

"What about your privilege to work as my employee? You do not have to work here, that is not your right. As your employer, I have the right to decide what conduct will and will not be permissible in my offices. If you do not agree with my decision, I do not have to keep you."

"I understand about being on company time, Sir, but may I speak with Stan about spiritual matters on my own time?"

"Not in my offices."

"Why not, Sir?"

"Henry, you work in a very diverse environment. I have worked to make certain that we have people of as many races and religions as possible. I will not allow you to offend Roberta or Abib just because you want to talk about your religion."

"May Roberta or Abib speak of their religions?"

"This is not about them, Henry. I have asked you to refrain from discussing your God in my offices. If you will not comply, then you might as well start looking for another job. Have I made myself clear to you, Henry?"

"Yes, Sir."

Musing–An Ode to Writing

Writing. Passing notes. Telling stories. Reporting news. Giving thanks. Confiding secrets. Living. Breathing. Writing. My entire life, whether intentional or not, I have been obsessed with writing. I love the feel of the keyboard under my fingers, and sometimes I will open a document and just type. Whatever comes to mind, I unleash and set free through my fingers. I do use the backspace key, but that’s only because the little squiggly red lines that my word processor puts under misspelled words seriously bothers me. I also love the feel of the pen in my fingers. I will hold a pen simply to hold a pen. There is simply something comforting about the tool of my trade. It fits perfectly into the curve of my fingers, resting on my beautifully hideous callous on my middle finger. It is hideous because it is unsightly; it is beautiful because it represents the hours that I have spent wielding my trusty pen. Just as I am tempted to read every bit of text within my eye line, I am quite often to write the thoughts that come to mind, if only to have something to write. What is so magical about this method of communication? I am not sure, but perhaps it is the romantic idea of capturing a thought and making it immortal. Or maybe it seems magical because it feeds my addiction to the written word. Maybe one day I’ll write a book about that magic.

Dialogue

"No, I didn’t."

"Yes, you did."

"Whatever! Prove it!"

Silence.

"Well, prove it! If you think I did it, prove it!"

"Ok, I can’t prove it. But I still say you did it."

"Why do you always accuse me of doing all the bad things that happen in this house?"

"I do not!"

"You do too–I’m always in trouble with Mom, and you’re the one who snitched."

"Well, you do a lot of stupid things–"

"That’s not fair: you do stupid stuff too!"

"Well, whatever. You did it, and I’ll find a way to prove it. I don’t want to get in trouble for breaking another lamp because I know that I didn’t do it. And I doubt the dog did it. That leaves....well, you."

"Will you come off it? I didn’t do it! I thought we had changed subjects."

"Not really. But we will now. I wish you wouldn’t whistle in the house when I’m trying to journal. You know it distracts and annoys me."

"Is this pick-on-your-little-sister day or something? I like whistling. Dad likes my whistling. He
says it cheers him to hear me whistling while he’s locked away in his study."

"It does not either, it distracts him too, and you know it."

"He says he likes it."

"That’s because you’re the favorite. You can get away with anything."

"I am not, and I can’t get away with anything, either."

"You are, and you do."

"Do not."

"Look, let’s not argue. I think Mom’s coming, and she’s in a sour mood, she might get angry to hear you bickering with me."

"Me? Bickering with you? You started it!"

"I did not."

"You did too: you accused me of breaking that lamp!"

Both girls are interrupted by a near scream in the next room.

"She’s found it. What are we going to do?"

"Let’s blame the dog."

"Got it. You do the talking: you’re the favorite and she’ll believe you."

"Am not."

Musing

The sign on the door declares "Eighteen days left!" One step inside the door proves that most of the semester has passed. Clothes have been piled in corners, completely forsaking all drawers and hangers. Books occupy beds, shelves, dressers, and counters. Jackets and umbrellas hang from bed posts. Pictures and comic strips paper the bulletin board. Papers, wrappers, and office supplies cover almost every square inch of the desk. The beds are no longer crisply made: the comforters are pulled over relatively smoothed sheets. Pillows no longer lay straight and parallel to the headboards. The two trash cans have rings of crumpled papers about a foot in radius. Candy wrappers decorate every surface, in a rainbow of colors. It’s only 18 days. The room will be clean in 18 days, and the occupants will keep it clean: they’ll be home!

Poetry--Villanelle, "My Friend"

[I had so much fun with the first villanelle, I wanted to try it again, with my own variation. Here’s what I came up with:]

Closer than brothers, loving ‘till the end
I simply cannot thank you enough,
my dear, dear friend.

Though my heart so often does rend
your strength keeps me tough,
my dear, dear friend.

I think on those hours that we spend,
the times we cry and the times we laugh,
closer than brothers, loving ‘till the end,

and I thank God ‘cause He thought to send
you to me,
my dear, dear friend.

When troubles upon your heart descend,
know that--you and me--we’ll always be
closer than brothers, loving ‘till the end.

When my last words I’ve finally penned,
I pray by then I’ll have loved you enough,
to thank you sufficiently for being to me
closer than a brother, loving ‘till the end.
I thank and love you, my dear, dear friend.

Musing--Christian Writing Philosophy

Q. Should evil characters curse in Christian writing?
A. Christian writers should not be familiar with the language of the world. There are ways to express a character’s evilness without using curse words. In fact, I believe that it is a sort of cop-out to use curse words for character development. A good writer can find more than one way to develop any kind of character.

Q. Should Christians write pornographic material (even innuendos)?
A. Absolutely not. Again, Christians should not be familiar with the evil things of the world. Pornography of any kind—pictural as well as verbal—is addicting, and Christians are commanded to not be stumbling blocks to others.

Q. Should Christians write vulgarity into their material?
A. I believe that it can be done without. I cannot think of any instance where it would be appropriate—isn’t that why it’s called vulgar?—and, since Christians will be judged for their words, everything must be appropriate.

Summary: The Bible instructs us to keep all communication pure and edifying to the brothers. If anything is not pure or edifying, it should not be written or published by Christians.

Poetry-- Freeverse, "Mooseltoe"

As big as me, he was
a Christmas gift, a reindeer
with rough, brown fur,
oversized head, and antlers.
I called him Mooseltoe.

We went to dances, he and I
spinning through the room,
carefree, happy, and wild.
He was my date, and I,
his friend, held his antlers
as we danced, they ripped.

Horrified, I sent him to surgery,
but Mom was just too busy
for him. I found needle and thread.

I stitched quickly, white thread
crossing the wound every-which-way
but he was never the same. I wept
for his incurable state, I nursed
him as best as I knew how.

Tired and worn thin, he
rests on my pillow now, dreaming
of dances and laughter, waiting
for me to be young again.

The other stuffed animals envy
his position of honor on my bed,
but his large eyes seem sad
and discontent there.

While I smile fondly
when I see him, he will never
dance again.

Poetry-- Villanelle

[I thoroughly enjoyed writing this one: it was delightfully challenging. I wrote this poem for my Mom. No questions about this one, please.]

My sisters and I, still quite small,
innocent and carefree in our own little way,
Three little girls run through the hall.

Daddy gives kisses to all,
he’s more tired than he’ll say:
My sisters and I, still quite small.

At school one day, we get a call:
Daddy will be going away.
Three little girls run through the hall.

Mad, scared, and confused, we fall
to each other’s arms, crying all day,
My sisters and I, still quite small.

One year later, in our doorway, standing tall,
our darling Daddy came back to stay;
Three little girls run through the hall.

Together we are strong, no matter what may befall,
and under our toughened exterior, we will be always
My sisters and I, still quite small,
Three little girls run through the hall.

Musing-- The [school] Library

A tense ennui. A determined struggle to accomplish... something. A quiet war against drooping eyelids. Bored busyness. The students in the library. Each as silent as a monk. Each fighting his own war with personal enemies–from sleep to limited resources or time–each a dogged warrior. These warriors trudge into the library, take one glance at the subdued yellow and peach walls, and dress for war. Some assume a glossy-eyed look, to protect them from both the unfriendly incandescent lights and the interrogation of the well-wishing library help. Some plaster on a face of intense concentration–straight, set eyebrows, narrowed eyes, firm mouth, and a sort of glare in the eye that reflects the light of war–to strengthen themselves against the inevitable several-hour battle they must fight. Some simply leave their face utterly blank, blocking out the offensive, tense atmosphere, and warding off the well-wishers. Few, very few enter the library with more than a sense of purpose. Few warrior students enter the library with a spring in their step that banishes all evils. Rare are the students who actually seek to spend time in the library. Rare, but not extinct.

Poetry-- Cincain

"Morning"

harsh light
screaming alarm
searching for books, clothes, shoes
stumble into cheery roommate
Monday.



"Poetry"

Release
guiding my muse
express any and all
emotions, thoughts, dreams, fears
Freeing



"Paper Writing"

squinting
tap, tap tappity
blue glow on my knuckles
font size way too small, too blurry
headache

Poetry-- Haiku, "End of Summer"

cheerful breezes race
through hills, brown, orange, and yellow
looking for the Frost

countless kids splashing
golden mothers still tanning
sun straining to shine

schools are sparkling clean
stores overflow with supplies
children sleep in late

Short Story: Risking Invisibility

"Come out here an’ sit down, Boy," Jenny commanded from her rocking chair on the front porch, "don’t jes’ stand there starin’ at an old woman!"

Arthur nearly jumped at the sound of her voice. He had been standing in the house, watching his great-great aunt through the screen door as she faithfully stroked the orange tabby in her lap. At her command, he opened the rickety door and stood beside her on the porch.

"What in the world were you doin’ jes’ standin’ there?" She asked.

He knew she would insist that he answer her before he could leave for class, so he reluctantly replied: "I was just thinking, Aunt Jenny." He hoped she would be satisfied with that ambiguous answer.

"What about, Sugar?"

"Class." Arthur realized that he would not escape, so he settled onto the top step, with his back slouched against the white-washed post of the handrail. Gingerly setting his bulging backpack on the step below him, and folding his long legs so that his backpack leaned against his pressed khaki pants, he turned to face Jenny.

"Is this the class where you see that girl—what’s her name?—that you like so much? Is that why you’re so thoughtful?"

"Yes, Aunt Jenny, Stephanie is in the class, but she is not why I am so ‘thoughtful’." Arthur remained determined to give only the information that Jenny required of him.

"Well then, if it’s not your love life that’s botherin’ you, what is?" Jenny asked.

Arthur ran his bony white fingers through his curly red hair. He would rather discuss his "love life" with Jenny than to explain to her that he was beginning to resent college life. In highschool, remaining invisible was easy: all of the teachers knew to not call on him. They did not push him into leadership roles; they did not volunteer him for anything. Since the beginning of the school year, Arthur had struggled with many teachers at Franklin Christian College. He could list hundreds of times he was pushed into socially awkward situations. At least his love life was bordering on non-existent.

"Sit up, Boy, an’ answer me." Jenny rocked forward to jab his right knee with her foot.

Arthur stretched his back out and pushed himself closer to the post, pulling his leg in closer to him. He hesitated a moment before answering: "I was thinking about speech class. I do not wish to go to speech class today."

"Why’s that?" she asked.

Arthur fiddled with the handle of his back pack. "My professor will announce the spokesmen today."

Jenny stopped petting her cat. "Do what? Are you talkin’ ‘bout that big ol’ speech thing you hafta give next week?"

"Yes. In the last class, the professor divided us into groups of five, and today he will assign the spokesmen for the groups. Whichever unlucky students that become spokesmen will have to coordinate and host the final presentation."

"An’ your afraid of gittin’ picked to be spokesmen," Jenny added.

"I have never been successful with peer interaction," Arthur admitted, "and I have no desire to be forced into any sort of role that requires social skills which I do not possess." He turned to glare at the pile of orange and red leaves in the freshly raked yard.

"Don’t you go an’ git uppity with me," Jenny gently chided, "I know you don’t git along
with them other kids, an’ I know you haven’t practiced none with makin’ friends. I also know that deep down, you jes’ wanna be liked and respected by them other kids."

Arthur did not remove his gaze from the yard.

Jenny continued: "You know what? If’n you did become a spokesman, and if’n you did a good job with it, that Stephanie girl would probably be more willin’ to like you. But Honey, you’ll never make her—or any of them other kids—like you with that attitude of yours. You’re jes’ too afraid that when them kids git to know you, they’ll start makin’ fun of you, an’ you’ll lose the safety you found when you came to this school. You gotta understand, Sugar, that you’ll never git anythin’ good in life unless you risk somethin’."

Arthur had heard enough. He glanced at his watch and stood up. "Thank you for the lecture, Aunt Jenny, but I must leave for class." He grabbed his backpack, perched it on his back, and shambled down the sidewalk.

Arthur usually took five minutes to walk to the old office building that now contained Franklin Christian College. Today, as he walked past the old antebellum houses on his way to class, he took time to consider their simple elegance: two stories of ivy-laced red brick; white painted wood porches; stately white columns supporting the roofs over the porches; and gigantic green ferns hanging in plastic green pots between the columns.

When he passed by the houses his classmates lived in, he could hear them talking and laughing through the open windows. He was lucky to have his mother’s great aunt Jenny living practically on campus: because he stayed with her, he did not have to pay for room or board. Three years ago, when the school opened, she wrote to his mother, insisting that he attend Franklin Christian College. "It’s cheaper," she had insisted, "and he needs to make friends." That’s what he did not understand about her: why did she insist that he change his life? Why must he be the one who "risks" everything? Why couldn’t the other students just get to know him, and like him for who he was?

Arthur reached the street corner. He was now directly across the street from the multi-purpose building that held the classrooms, staff offices, and cafeteria/commons for the school. He still had several minutes before class, so he turned off the sidewalk onto a red stone pathway which led him behind a house quite different from the others. He walked past the hand-painted wooden sign that read: "Franklin Christian Church: may God Almighty bless our community through us." This was the church that Aunt Jenny attended; the church that founded the school. Its water-stained stucco walls reached three stories to meet with dull red Spanish-style shingles. A three-foot stucco wall extended from the back wall of the house, forming a sort of fence around a well tended garden. A few feet from the house, the wall stretched up into a graceful arch, and down again to complete the fence. He followed the path, through the stucco arch, and into the garden. When he found the old wood-carved bench, he sat down.
Aunt Jenny’s lecture did make some sense: after all, who would want to be friends with a guy who never speaks to anyone unless he has to? And Stephanie would never like him unless he changed. But Aunt Jenny did not understand what he had been through in highschool. She did not understand the humiliation of being the school’s joke. She did not understand that no matter how hard he tried to make friends, someone always found a way to embarrass him. She did not understand that he was comfortable in his role as the quiet nerd who knows more than everyone and speaks to no-one.

But then, it very well could be worth risking losing his invisibility. He could just try–just once–to be the guy everyone likes. He was smart enough to make an "A" on the speech project; the hardest part would be helping the other students to get that "A." And maybe when he proved to Stephanie that he was not afraid of being a leader, he could win her heart. If only he could win her adoration, that would be worth the embarrassment his awkward social skills would inevitably bring.

His watch beeped, interrupting his reflections. It was class time: time to prove himself either as incurable coward, or as a man willing to risk his pride for the good things in life. He darted across the street and ran up all five flights of stairs to his classroom. He stopped at the refinished office door. It was closed. Behind the dark mahogany wood and the large, frosted glass window, he could hear his teacher talking about the project. Arthur had missed the bell. He reached out, tentatively resting his hand on the dirty brass door handle that curved like a lazy "S" toward the hinges. His teacher explained to the students that the spokesmen he listed would have the choice to accept or reject the position. If a potential spokesman were absent, he would forfeit the privilege of the position.

Arthur’s hand slid off the door handle. He wiped the sweat from his palm on his pants leg. The teacher began reading: "For group one, Kay will be spokesman. For group two, James. For group three, Jimmy. For group four, Stephanie..."

Hearing her name made Arthur’s heart quicken and his palms sweat all the more. The teacher only had to name one more spokesman. Could he, for Stephanie’s sake, risk everything he was accustomed to?

"For group five, Arthur."

Arthur’s knees buckled. He turned and stumbled down the hallway. He needed a nice, long walk.

Musing... literally!

She clutched the card to her heart as she sauntered back to her dorm. It was a simple card: just a picture of a green frog on a sunflower, but she didn’t care. She was in love. This starry-eyed girl.......**snap**crackle**pop**

Hello? Is this thing on?? Hi there. This is Amanda’s muse speaking. I thought I’d just interrupt this sappy little story with a comment. What in the world is Amanda doing writing this sappy stuff, anyway? Maybe sappy’s not quite the word for it. Perhaps pathetically romantic is the phrase. Perhaps just pathetic. I mean, what’s with the card? Who would buy—much less send—a card with a frog on a sunflower on it? The frog is so obviously out of place. What would a frog be doing sitting on the petals, the very weak petals of a six-foot sunflower, anyway? And "starry-eyed." What does that mean? Is she looking at the stars, thus the starry reflection in her eyes?

This is the kind of work Amanda does when I’m not here to move her fingers for her. Man, is it rough! No offense or anything, but without me, she’s nothing. I wish she would realize how very much she depends on me, and treat me with a bit of respect. I rarely get freedom, and never like this: I am usually kept in the back of her mind, stored away behind the various laundry lists she tries to maintain. It can get pretty dusty behind a wall of sticky-note thoughts. When she does finally call on me to write for her, she expects me to preform at my best, and to give her an inspiring, amazing, grade-winning piece of work. What she does not realize is that a dusty muse is not a happy muse. I do my best for her, but I inevitably leave dust on the words, clauses, and paragraphs.

I cannot wait for the day that I am never again stored behind those dusty thoughts. I cannot wait for Amanda to realize that the only way she is going to get anything award-winning out of me is to let me loose, everyday. I cannot wait until I can complain about needing a break. She thinks she might become an editor. That’s fine and dandy for her, but it is an alarming proposition for me: what if, while she weeds through wobbly grammar and dangling modifiers, she forgets about me? I cannot bear the thought!

Until that day—when she realizes she cannot write without me, or when I am indefinitely locked into the corner of her mind—I must do all I can to give her what she needs and wants from me. I must give her those A papers, encouraging poems, and tear-jerking letters. I must inflame her desire to write. I must inspire her. I must...

I must be going. She wants to get back to her sappy love story.

Dialogue

[This is an imaginary conversation between the Arthur of Risking Inivisibility and his mother's ex-lover. I was playing with the character, his history, and his dialogue.]

How in the world did they end up on the same elevator? What was he doing in Franklin, anyway? Art pressed the button for the fifth floor. The man next to him pressed the same button, and the door closed. Both men pressed against opposite walls, and diligently studied their shoes.

"So. You a student here?"

Art flinched. He was not ready to speak civilly with the man. Not here, not now, not yet—maybe not ever. He remembered that manners required a reply, and though he did not want to speak to him at all, he compromised by refusing to look at the man as he spoke: "Yes."

"I see."

"Mhhmm."

"I was just dropping by for an art lecture," the other man said. "They wanted me to show the students some of my work, and explain a little bit about my style."

"Oh." Art glanced at the briefcase-size portfolio at the man’s feet. What kind of work could he fit into that?

As Art considered the man’s art, the lights flickered out and the elevator came to a screeching stop.

Great. Art sighed. He did not want to be stuck with this man in any sort of room, much less in a tiny elevator, in the dark. He wanted to give the man lecture of his own: what kind of man was he, anyway? What kind of man did what he had done to his mother? Art’s mother did not even speak with the man, for all he knew. At least in the dark, he did not have to look at the face of his mother’s ex. Art sighed again and slid down to the floor, leaning against the corner.

"Well, it looks like we’re stuck," the other man said. "So. How’s Luanne?"
Art turned to glare in the direction of the man’s voice. "How dare you—" Art stopped short: he had spoken without thinking.

"Excuse me?"

Art knew there was no going back now, so he decided to bring it all out: "How dare you speak to me? How dare you do what you did to my mother? How dare you ask how she is after you hurt her like that?"

"Ah, I see," Luanne’s ex interrupted him. "You think I’m a criminal. That’s it, eh? Well, I’m not. Luanne—er, your mother—has as much a free will as myself. She is as much to blame—"

"Do not patronize me: you are not my father," Art snapped. "And do not blame my mother for what you did to her. Did you know that she loved you so much that she named me after you?"

"Well, actually,"

"She did," Art said. "And I wish she had not."

Luanne’s ex coughed. "That’s kind of harsh."

"Not harsh enough," Art retorted. "I hate my name. I have had to hear Arthur Douglas everyday of my life. Everyday of my life, I have been reminded of the man who killed my mother’s heart. When you left her, you took her heart with you. She married a man who cares nothing for her, and he does nothing more than pay the bills. In hopes to ressurrect her heart, she named me after you. It did not work. She is a very broken woman."

"I’m sorry."

"Well, that will not fix my mother’s broken heart." Art said. "Nor will it take away the shame that I bear in this name."

"Well, what do you want me to do about it now?"

Art had failed to think about that. What could he do now? He could not think of any solution, so he just grumbled: "I don’t know. Just– just leave us alone."

The power returned to the elevator, and it rose one flight, to the fifth floor. When the doors opened, two different men exited than had entered: one came out with a broader view of his problem, the other came out with a larger burden from his past, and both left a little more sober than they had come.

Character Sketch

Grandpa Ira always had candy in his pockets for his grandchildren. The only thing about that is... he didn’t have grandchildren. Every Sunday he would load up his pants pockets, jacket pockets, and shirt pockets with gum, "certs", and red-and-white-striped peppermints. Once he got to church, all the little children knew that it was first-come, first-serve. As the boys and girls found him throughout the day, they would throw their arms around his knee, arm, or neck (whichever they could reach best) and hug with all their might until he "relented" and gave them the candy they sought. He found his greatest joy in giving out candy, since he had no grandchildren of his own, and his dear wife was terminally ill. He worried about her constantly. His portly frame gave him a jolly expression that hid the pain, and the sparkle in his eyes covered the concern in his heart: he always wondered, as he was giving out candy on Sunday mornings, if his wife would be there when he returned. But of course, the children never knew that he was so conflicted. They just knew that Grandpa Ira loved them. And that was all that mattered.

Musing

I sit, with my knees pulled to my chest, and my "duster" sweater draped over my bared shins, thinking. I know that I must improve my writing: my reading of professional writers’ works emphatically recommends it. Perhaps my weakest skill is observation... and description of my observations. My mother always told me that though I could see the future, I was blind right in front of my nose. I would also like to strengthen my typing skills, and this exercise should prove useful for both skills. I shall start by observing my current condition and my surroundings, "looking hard" at them, as my most recent read suggests.

I have slouched over, doubled in half, with my chin resting on my knee as I type. My eyes strain to see the twelve point font on the screen, peering through heavy, half-closed eyelids. The glare of the screen burns into the back of my reddened eyes, making me wish I could type with them closed. My limp, unbrushed brunette hair spills at will over my shoulders and partly over my face. A dry smelling blue duster–my favorite-hides my crouched self, providing warmth and comfort. Long, thick, white socks lazily cover my feet, slouching on my ankles and around my toes.

As I try to sniff for a good, exciting smell to describe, I wince. I can easily feel the walls of my nasal cavity, all the way down to my esophagus. I imagine, from the pain, that they are all red and angry with the abundance of alien particles in the air. Some people call them allergies. I call it war. Right now, I don’t know who’s winning-my nasal system or the allergens-but the battlefield is starting to look a little abused.

As my aching fingers slow their rhythm on the keyboard, I realize that my right brain has shut down for the night, and refuses to take any kind of look, much less a hard one, at anything else. Suddenly my electric blue feather pillow seems to be much more friendly than the computer screen. I must force myself to stay awake a while longer: I have to prepare for bed, at the very least, and this practice generally requires eyesight and a bit of coordination. Unfortunately, I must leave my friend the keyboard and listen to the music of the water flowing over my toothbrush.