An old man traveled down the rainy, busy street. Unlike most people there, his clothes were made of real fabric, not plastic. It had been a pain in the neck to find, but he felt it was worth it. Stranger still, he went on his own two feet, not an electric hover board.
He didn't run, but walked with an urgency that was uncommon in this age of constant computer contact. He zig-zagged along the road, upsetting traffic, and asked the same questions over and over.
"Do you hate our Nation? Do you believe in magic?"
He was almost never allowed to get to the second question, because the person he was asking would always shriek at the idea and dart away, start yelling in his face, or simply come at him with fists raised. The very idea, to them, of disliking, let alone hating, the Nation was entirely unthinkable. The man avoided all attacks, and simply walked on with a stern, worried expression.
He had been repeating those questions for hours now. His heart began to sink. Would he ever find anyone suitable? But then he saw a young boy, no older than five, nibbling quietly on a dried slab of Slips. He looked starved and cold. This was not unusual; hundreds of beggar boys lined this highway alone. This child's small eyes, however, were not focused on his scavenged food, or guarding his plastic cup with perhaps a coin or two in it. Instead, he watched each person as they flew by, seeming to be calculating, thinking. The boy's eyes connected with the old man's gaze, and they both knew something important was about to happen.
The man crossed the street and stood before the child. The young boy stared defiantly up at him. If he was scared, he didn't show it.
Heart pounding, the man asked his first question.
"Do you hate our Nation?"
The tiny, starved boy looked around, seeming to consider. Finally he answered simply,
"Yes."
The man could have jumped for joy. Lips curling into a smile, he asked the second question.
"Do you believe in magic?"
This time, the boy did not need to think. He grinned, revealing tiny, surprisingly white teeth and replied,
"Yes."
The man sighed in relief.
"Take this, child."
He held out an amulet, taken from his back pocket. It was a silver disk on a gold chain, engraved with a language long forgotten. If the child accepted it, the man's life's work would be complete.
The kid did not drop his Slips, or hold out a hand.
"What is it?"
This kid was smart. He knew not to trust strangers.
"It is your destiny."
The boy raised a critical eyebrow and looked the man over for a good ten seconds. Finally, without a word, he put out his right hand, palm up.
Smiling, the man lowered the amulet onto his outstretched hand.
The boy watched in fascination as the the silver disk wiggled down his hand and then stopped on his wrist. After a moments pause, it slowly sunk into his skin, like a leaf in thick mud. Soon it seemed that the boy had a detailed, shiny tattoo on his wrist. The gold chain reached up and wrapped around his hand, and soon he had an irremovable bracelet. The process didn't hurt, but it did send happy shivers down his spine. He wiggled his wrist around, entertained by the jingling sound it made.
Remembering his manners, he looked up to thank the man. But he was gone. All that was to be seen was dozens of people on their hover boards, logged into computers attached to their irises.
The boy nodded to himself. In his mothers old stories, mysterious characters never stuck around, so why should this event be any different? He pulled up his sleeve to hide his new treasure, for he knew that if anyone saw it, they would do their best to snatch it, and that would only lead to trouble. Then he raised the stale Slips to his mouth, and quietly, simply, he returned to watching the wet streets.
The Angel's Choir
The
shepherds saw, up in the sky, amid a soft, warm light,
A
crowd of holy angels, singing through the night.
As
they sang for Baby Jesus, (a manger for a bed,)
I
wonder what they sang of, I wonder what they said.
I'm
sure it had to do with hope, with love, and perfect peace,
I'm
sure their voices rang out pure, without a single cease.
I
wonder if they practiced, for hours every day,
Or
if in that joyful moment, their hearts knew what to say?
Did
they have a soloist, or a chorister in charge,
Or
did they all have equal parts, the small up to the large?
Was
I up there with them? Was I in that heavenly throng?
Did
I barely murmur, or did I proudly sing along?
I
don't know if I was there, thousands of years ago,
But
as I sit here thinking, there's one thing that I know.
As
I live from day to day, a song I'll always repeat,
And
even if the times are hard, I'll never miss a beat.
Come
with me, join my song, and together we will sing,
The
same sweet song the angels sang to the King of everything.
My Ramblings
"Uhg!"
I push the keyboard away and slam my head down on the desk.
"Why is all my writing total crap?!" I ask to no one in particular.
I thought I had read something somewhere that said one of the best cures for writers block was to look at the first random object you see and describe it. Maybe I'll give that a go...
It's shiny and smooth, with a small dip in one side to let the juice flow out. The whole thing is a work of art, but it is underused and-
...
Guess that didn't work. Oh, well. I move my mouse away from the input box on Blogger, (I use Blogger to write all my stuff, then cut and paste it to wherever. I like the format- really simple, with lots of curvy lines. Good for the eyes,) and open a new tab in Google. I try a search for 'Cure for Writers Block', which wields 'about 708,000' results, according to the number displayed below, and as far as I can tell, none of them are useful. I get to wondering about that number they display, saying that's how many results they got. They could probably write any number they wanted in there- not like anyone's going to count. And then they list the time it took Google to find all of it, which seems kinda like bragging to me, don't you think? Like, 'look at me, I'm the best search engine ever! I got hundreds of thousands of results, and I did it in less than half a second! I even used decimals! Oh yeah.'
Now that I think of it, I'll bet you anything that they always round the number of results up and the amount of time down. Like, if they got 111,111 results, they would tell us they got 'about 200,000' results. If I had any less of a life, I would probably stop to count them, just to prove Google wrong.
I wonder if anyone would sue Google if they counted them all, and it turned out to be a lot less. I bet someone would. For some people, 'sue them' is the answer to everything. Last year, in seventh grade, my class set up a mock trial and I had to be a witness. We went to a real court house to debate and everything! The court house wasn't as impressive as I thought it would be- no big wooden platform for the judge, like you see on TV. It was just a big room, with grey carpet and tile walls. There were these weird windows that only showed the outline of things. There was this one squirrel that kept running up and down this tree outside, and this kid named Cameron and I were cracking up. Is it disrespectful to laugh at a squirrel during a trial? I bet it is. Oops.
I never know when to laugh. Like, sometimes, the teacher cracks a joke- a reference to a book, or a song, or something, and no one else gets it. So there I am, in the second-to-last row, laughing to a joke no one else understands, and then the teacher starts laughing too, and the rest of the class is just looking at the both of us like, 'what the heck is going on here?' And then I feel like an idiot, even though I'm kinda doing a smart thing.
And then there are other times, at lunch, when someone says something about a certain reproductive organ doing a certain thing, and I'm sitting there trying to figure out how that's anatomically possible while they're all laughing like that's the funniest thing any human being has ever said.
I guess my sense of humor is a little advanced.
A few days ago, I was wasting time in class, and I was looking up funny science jokes, everything from jokes about atoms to jokes about DNA. This kid next to me, Conner, is looking at my screen and laughing, and I swear, he was totally fake laughing, trying to look smart. I look at him and I'm thinking, no way does he get these references. My parents don't get these references. So I say to him, "Stop fake laughing," and he's like, "I'm not fake laughing," and then I point to a joke on the screen, one about Schrodinger's cat, and I ask him, "What's this joke about, then?" He just kinda looks at it for a while, then he looks back at his screen and goes, "Hey, did you know Urchins are a food? You eat the sex organs," and I'm like, hu? And he starts reading off this totally random website he found.
Conner is weird.
No, not weird. Weird is a compliment, coming from me. He's just dumb.
I sit back and look at my screen. I hadn't realized I'd written this much. I flick open a website I use sometimes called 'wordcounttool.com'. You just cut and paste your work into it's little box, press enter, and it counts the words for you.
Okay, it's at 847 right now. Not great, but not that bad either. As I'm looking back at it, it seems pretty fun to read, if I do say so myself. I wonder what I should call it. How about 'My Ramblings'? Yeah, that works. 'Cuz that's all it is, really. Just me rambling on and on...
So, I just got my mom to read over it for me. She sits down at the computer and starts speed-reading in that way she does. Seriously, this woman is a reading bullet. She's done with the page before I've even finished the first sentence!
Anyway. She's laughing every now and then, which is a good sign. I ask her if I can have a cookie. She grunts, which I take to mean, 'Sure, honey, eat as many as you like.'
We have some pretty good cookies right now. They're pumpkin, with chocolate and butterscotch chips. I helped make them, and it was pretty fun. I've been getting into baking lately.
Huh. I just realized that I have no idea how to end this thing. I just finished reading this book, 'The Misfits', and I thought it was pretty good, until the ending. It was a total happily-ever-after thing, and it really contradicted stuff it had said before. I hope my ending doesn't do that. I bet it won't, 'cuz you kinda need a plot in order to contradict anything, and a plot is not something this post has.
So, I think I'll probably put this up on Teenink, one of my favorite writing websites. I'll post it on my blog, too... Maybe I'll do another one of these sometime... or maybe not- wait and see!
I push the keyboard away and slam my head down on the desk.
"Why is all my writing total crap?!" I ask to no one in particular.
I thought I had read something somewhere that said one of the best cures for writers block was to look at the first random object you see and describe it. Maybe I'll give that a go...
It's shiny and smooth, with a small dip in one side to let the juice flow out. The whole thing is a work of art, but it is underused and-
...
Guess that didn't work. Oh, well. I move my mouse away from the input box on Blogger, (I use Blogger to write all my stuff, then cut and paste it to wherever. I like the format- really simple, with lots of curvy lines. Good for the eyes,) and open a new tab in Google. I try a search for 'Cure for Writers Block', which wields 'about 708,000' results, according to the number displayed below, and as far as I can tell, none of them are useful. I get to wondering about that number they display, saying that's how many results they got. They could probably write any number they wanted in there- not like anyone's going to count. And then they list the time it took Google to find all of it, which seems kinda like bragging to me, don't you think? Like, 'look at me, I'm the best search engine ever! I got hundreds of thousands of results, and I did it in less than half a second! I even used decimals! Oh yeah.'
Now that I think of it, I'll bet you anything that they always round the number of results up and the amount of time down. Like, if they got 111,111 results, they would tell us they got 'about 200,000' results. If I had any less of a life, I would probably stop to count them, just to prove Google wrong.
I wonder if anyone would sue Google if they counted them all, and it turned out to be a lot less. I bet someone would. For some people, 'sue them' is the answer to everything. Last year, in seventh grade, my class set up a mock trial and I had to be a witness. We went to a real court house to debate and everything! The court house wasn't as impressive as I thought it would be- no big wooden platform for the judge, like you see on TV. It was just a big room, with grey carpet and tile walls. There were these weird windows that only showed the outline of things. There was this one squirrel that kept running up and down this tree outside, and this kid named Cameron and I were cracking up. Is it disrespectful to laugh at a squirrel during a trial? I bet it is. Oops.
I never know when to laugh. Like, sometimes, the teacher cracks a joke- a reference to a book, or a song, or something, and no one else gets it. So there I am, in the second-to-last row, laughing to a joke no one else understands, and then the teacher starts laughing too, and the rest of the class is just looking at the both of us like, 'what the heck is going on here?' And then I feel like an idiot, even though I'm kinda doing a smart thing.
And then there are other times, at lunch, when someone says something about a certain reproductive organ doing a certain thing, and I'm sitting there trying to figure out how that's anatomically possible while they're all laughing like that's the funniest thing any human being has ever said.
I guess my sense of humor is a little advanced.
A few days ago, I was wasting time in class, and I was looking up funny science jokes, everything from jokes about atoms to jokes about DNA. This kid next to me, Conner, is looking at my screen and laughing, and I swear, he was totally fake laughing, trying to look smart. I look at him and I'm thinking, no way does he get these references. My parents don't get these references. So I say to him, "Stop fake laughing," and he's like, "I'm not fake laughing," and then I point to a joke on the screen, one about Schrodinger's cat, and I ask him, "What's this joke about, then?" He just kinda looks at it for a while, then he looks back at his screen and goes, "Hey, did you know Urchins are a food? You eat the sex organs," and I'm like, hu? And he starts reading off this totally random website he found.
Conner is weird.
No, not weird. Weird is a compliment, coming from me. He's just dumb.
I sit back and look at my screen. I hadn't realized I'd written this much. I flick open a website I use sometimes called 'wordcounttool.com'. You just cut and paste your work into it's little box, press enter, and it counts the words for you.
Okay, it's at 847 right now. Not great, but not that bad either. As I'm looking back at it, it seems pretty fun to read, if I do say so myself. I wonder what I should call it. How about 'My Ramblings'? Yeah, that works. 'Cuz that's all it is, really. Just me rambling on and on...
So, I just got my mom to read over it for me. She sits down at the computer and starts speed-reading in that way she does. Seriously, this woman is a reading bullet. She's done with the page before I've even finished the first sentence!
Anyway. She's laughing every now and then, which is a good sign. I ask her if I can have a cookie. She grunts, which I take to mean, 'Sure, honey, eat as many as you like.'
We have some pretty good cookies right now. They're pumpkin, with chocolate and butterscotch chips. I helped make them, and it was pretty fun. I've been getting into baking lately.
Huh. I just realized that I have no idea how to end this thing. I just finished reading this book, 'The Misfits', and I thought it was pretty good, until the ending. It was a total happily-ever-after thing, and it really contradicted stuff it had said before. I hope my ending doesn't do that. I bet it won't, 'cuz you kinda need a plot in order to contradict anything, and a plot is not something this post has.
So, I think I'll probably put this up on Teenink, one of my favorite writing websites. I'll post it on my blog, too... Maybe I'll do another one of these sometime... or maybe not- wait and see!
An Ode to Poems That are Shorter than their Titles, Because that is an Awesome Literary Device; Also, an Ode to the Word 'Ode', Just Because I Can.
The title says it all.
This poem's really small.
This poem's really small.
First Laugh
I crouched on top of the building, looking out. My long, dirty braid waved in the wind. The sunset lit the land with long shadows. Shadows, I'd learned, could make any landscape look threatening, even a peaceful suburb.
A blinding light started to appear around the corner. Angels. I hissed in pain and turned away, cursing myself. I usually wore tainted goggles that protected me from their glare, but I'd thought I got them off my tail blocks ago, so I took them off. Before I turned around, fumbling with the glasses to put them back on, I got a glimpse of a perfect arm, a face that couldn't have been better if it were photo-shopped. How had they found me? I'd shadow-jumped, traveling instantly from one dark spot to another. How could they have known where I was? Their expressions gave no clues. They laughed, as happy as a kid in a candy store, only more so.
Filthy vermin, idiotic pests. If I had looked closer, I would have noticed their empty, stupid eyes, their fake, too-big smiles. But there was not time. Now I had to run for my life.
I turned and sprinted down the roof. My arms were up by my face, adjusting the lenses, and when I was done I let them drop. They held perfectly still, a little behind me. My core stayed leaning forward, my face turned into the wind. The only thing that moved was my legs, a mere blur below me. The wind blew against the burnt side of my face, stinging. I would have felt free, powerful. If, you know, there weren't a bunch of angels on my tail.
Looking to the left, I saw a sunset. It would have been beautiful to most, but I just wished it would go away. It made me far too visible.
Glancing over my shoulder, I saw a slender finger point my way.
"Look!" I could just barely catch the word. There was no panic in the voice, not like one would expect from a person who had seen a demon. More like a child pointing out a pretty robin.
By now, of course, I had reached the edge of the roof. I jumped, soaring through the air, in the exact same position I had held while running. I landed perfectly, my heel lining up with the gutter.
I turned and ran backwards, wondering if I could scare them off that way. It was just as easy for me as it had been facing forward. My eye sockets were empty, because I had given my eyes to my Master, in return for the ability to see in any direction around me. It was more than worth it.
The angels were in pursuit. If you looked specifically at their bodies, they looked like they were just walking. But if you compared them to the background, you could see that they were traveling faster than a full sprint.
I cursed. "Soul walk," I muttered. I didn't think they would be so alert. Most angels go through life groggy, simply followed the commands of their elders.
"Don't worry, I'll go on ahead."
My heart, which usually only beats twice a minute anyway, stopped dead. One of the angels, a boy, had split from the group. He had broken into a light jog, and was now faster than most cars.
Desperately, I turned back around and pushed into full speed. I knew it was no use, but I couldn't just give up, could I?
"Please, come down."
The angel had broken even with me, and he had given an Order. I knew for a fact that giving an Order was exhausting for the angel who gave it, but no one, not even a demon, could resist.
As I jumped down into the ally, against my own will, I felt like crying. (Naturally,when you have no eyes, it's hard to cry.)
He smiled, a warm smile. A practiced, deadly smile. "Stay right there a minute, please."
I whimpered. This was it. I wouldn't die; that would be far too forgiving for an angel. Instead, my soul would be drained of it's power, bit by bit, to power the grand city of Heaven. When there was almost nothing left, I would be tossed aside, and subjected to unknown horrors. Some say that the used-up demons are turned into new angels. I hope not.
He turned and called to his friends, "I got her. Bring up the capture chamber."
He turned back to me, a satisfied look on him face.
"Please don't hurt me." I found myself saying.
He looked authentically confused. "Why would I hurt you?"
I lifted my head, hoping to look defiant in my last moments. "You're an angel. It's what you do."
Now that I saw him close up, I noticed something. He was not like other angels. He was gorgeous, of course. But were those pores I was seeing? Slight bags under the eyes? His hair shone, but there were a few strands that hung by his ears, out of place.
And more than that, his eyes... I had never seen any emotion in an angels eyes, in all the times I've spied on them. But there was concern on his face. Maybe even worry.
"Why do you think that?"
"My brother..." I trailed off, reaching up with a wrinkled hand to touch the glass shard, a piece of a fake scull that my brother had worn. He had thrown to me as he was sucked into the capture chamber, screaming in pain. I had barely gotten away myself that day... The shard hung around my neck on his shoelace, the only other thing I was able to retrieve.
"Demons have family?"
"Yes." more so than angels, perhaps.
There was a short pause. He looked uncomfortable. I could tell he was working up courage. And then he asked, "Is there... emotion where you come from?"
He said the word 'emotion' like it was forbidden, like he might get in trouble for saying it.
"Yes." I saw an opportunity for escape. "More emotion than you have ever seen."
It wasn't a lie. But it was a half-truth, the best kind of lie. There was emotion; in the fight-pits, in the death matches, in the battles, but not like he was thinking. Not good emotion.
"Then I will come with you."
I scowled, then quickly changed my expression. I could deal with this one angel later. Right now, I just had to get away from the others. They were just around the corner, and I could hear their voices. I felt the power of his Order lifting. I leaped onto the roof of the building in a single leap, not looking back to see if he was following. The sun was almost entirely below the horizon now. Soon, it would be night, my domain. The angel would be almost entirely at my mercy. I liked that thought.
I glanced behind me, just to make sure he was there, that he wasn't still with the others. He was right behind me. He moved effortlessly across the roof, barely pushing off with his toe to cross the gaps between buildings.
We must have made an odd pair, a half rotten, half burned girl, and an almost perfect, innocent boy.
I wondered, what would come first; would he make me pure, or would I corrupt him?
The very thought of me being pure made me throw my head back and laugh. I think it disturbed him, but I didn't care.
It was the first laugh I'd had in centuries.
A blinding light started to appear around the corner. Angels. I hissed in pain and turned away, cursing myself. I usually wore tainted goggles that protected me from their glare, but I'd thought I got them off my tail blocks ago, so I took them off. Before I turned around, fumbling with the glasses to put them back on, I got a glimpse of a perfect arm, a face that couldn't have been better if it were photo-shopped. How had they found me? I'd shadow-jumped, traveling instantly from one dark spot to another. How could they have known where I was? Their expressions gave no clues. They laughed, as happy as a kid in a candy store, only more so.
Filthy vermin, idiotic pests. If I had looked closer, I would have noticed their empty, stupid eyes, their fake, too-big smiles. But there was not time. Now I had to run for my life.
I turned and sprinted down the roof. My arms were up by my face, adjusting the lenses, and when I was done I let them drop. They held perfectly still, a little behind me. My core stayed leaning forward, my face turned into the wind. The only thing that moved was my legs, a mere blur below me. The wind blew against the burnt side of my face, stinging. I would have felt free, powerful. If, you know, there weren't a bunch of angels on my tail.
Looking to the left, I saw a sunset. It would have been beautiful to most, but I just wished it would go away. It made me far too visible.
Glancing over my shoulder, I saw a slender finger point my way.
"Look!" I could just barely catch the word. There was no panic in the voice, not like one would expect from a person who had seen a demon. More like a child pointing out a pretty robin.
By now, of course, I had reached the edge of the roof. I jumped, soaring through the air, in the exact same position I had held while running. I landed perfectly, my heel lining up with the gutter.
I turned and ran backwards, wondering if I could scare them off that way. It was just as easy for me as it had been facing forward. My eye sockets were empty, because I had given my eyes to my Master, in return for the ability to see in any direction around me. It was more than worth it.
The angels were in pursuit. If you looked specifically at their bodies, they looked like they were just walking. But if you compared them to the background, you could see that they were traveling faster than a full sprint.
I cursed. "Soul walk," I muttered. I didn't think they would be so alert. Most angels go through life groggy, simply followed the commands of their elders.
"Don't worry, I'll go on ahead."
My heart, which usually only beats twice a minute anyway, stopped dead. One of the angels, a boy, had split from the group. He had broken into a light jog, and was now faster than most cars.
Desperately, I turned back around and pushed into full speed. I knew it was no use, but I couldn't just give up, could I?
"Please, come down."
The angel had broken even with me, and he had given an Order. I knew for a fact that giving an Order was exhausting for the angel who gave it, but no one, not even a demon, could resist.
As I jumped down into the ally, against my own will, I felt like crying. (Naturally,when you have no eyes, it's hard to cry.)
He smiled, a warm smile. A practiced, deadly smile. "Stay right there a minute, please."
I whimpered. This was it. I wouldn't die; that would be far too forgiving for an angel. Instead, my soul would be drained of it's power, bit by bit, to power the grand city of Heaven. When there was almost nothing left, I would be tossed aside, and subjected to unknown horrors. Some say that the used-up demons are turned into new angels. I hope not.
He turned and called to his friends, "I got her. Bring up the capture chamber."
He turned back to me, a satisfied look on him face.
"Please don't hurt me." I found myself saying.
He looked authentically confused. "Why would I hurt you?"
I lifted my head, hoping to look defiant in my last moments. "You're an angel. It's what you do."
Now that I saw him close up, I noticed something. He was not like other angels. He was gorgeous, of course. But were those pores I was seeing? Slight bags under the eyes? His hair shone, but there were a few strands that hung by his ears, out of place.
And more than that, his eyes... I had never seen any emotion in an angels eyes, in all the times I've spied on them. But there was concern on his face. Maybe even worry.
"Why do you think that?"
"My brother..." I trailed off, reaching up with a wrinkled hand to touch the glass shard, a piece of a fake scull that my brother had worn. He had thrown to me as he was sucked into the capture chamber, screaming in pain. I had barely gotten away myself that day... The shard hung around my neck on his shoelace, the only other thing I was able to retrieve.
"Demons have family?"
"Yes." more so than angels, perhaps.
There was a short pause. He looked uncomfortable. I could tell he was working up courage. And then he asked, "Is there... emotion where you come from?"
He said the word 'emotion' like it was forbidden, like he might get in trouble for saying it.
"Yes." I saw an opportunity for escape. "More emotion than you have ever seen."
It wasn't a lie. But it was a half-truth, the best kind of lie. There was emotion; in the fight-pits, in the death matches, in the battles, but not like he was thinking. Not good emotion.
"Then I will come with you."
I scowled, then quickly changed my expression. I could deal with this one angel later. Right now, I just had to get away from the others. They were just around the corner, and I could hear their voices. I felt the power of his Order lifting. I leaped onto the roof of the building in a single leap, not looking back to see if he was following. The sun was almost entirely below the horizon now. Soon, it would be night, my domain. The angel would be almost entirely at my mercy. I liked that thought.
I glanced behind me, just to make sure he was there, that he wasn't still with the others. He was right behind me. He moved effortlessly across the roof, barely pushing off with his toe to cross the gaps between buildings.
We must have made an odd pair, a half rotten, half burned girl, and an almost perfect, innocent boy.
I wondered, what would come first; would he make me pure, or would I corrupt him?
The very thought of me being pure made me throw my head back and laugh. I think it disturbed him, but I didn't care.
It was the first laugh I'd had in centuries.
The Lord's Fire
The whole world was in darkness, until the Savior said,
"Let there be light," and suddenly, all the shadows fled.
Don't you think that if He can fill the entire Earth with light,
That if you simply pray to Him, he can help you make things right.
One girl with God is an army alone, and while armies of men might fall,
God can take it the rest of the way if you're willing to do your all.
He is the light at the end of the tunnel, let Him be the light at your feet,
If you keep one eye on His glory, you will never see defeat.
The Lord has lit a fire, and it is always there,
It's light is very beautiful, and wonderful to share.
Light your torch from the Lord's fire, and never let it dim,
Because you are always beautiful, when you reflect the light of Him.
"Let there be light," and suddenly, all the shadows fled.
Don't you think that if He can fill the entire Earth with light,
That if you simply pray to Him, he can help you make things right.
One girl with God is an army alone, and while armies of men might fall,
God can take it the rest of the way if you're willing to do your all.
He is the light at the end of the tunnel, let Him be the light at your feet,
If you keep one eye on His glory, you will never see defeat.
The Lord has lit a fire, and it is always there,
It's light is very beautiful, and wonderful to share.
Light your torch from the Lord's fire, and never let it dim,
Because you are always beautiful, when you reflect the light of Him.
The Sick Power of a Writer
If I included myself in one of my stories, I would be the villian. And for once, the main character would lose the fight. How can one defeat someone who can, at will, change you, kill you off? I simply am too powerful.
For instance, is one character getting too strong? Would they make for a boring story with an obvious end? Change them. Better yet, trash them, forget that I ever thought of them.
Is the villians motives too convining? Make him the hero, instead.
Too funny? Add a tragedy to their early life. Too sad? Give them a sheltered life. Too smart? Find a reason for them to skip school for a few years. Too dumb? Throw in a parent with high expectations.
Like a tornado, I wizz through their world, tweeking and changing the fundamentals of who they are, what they know. It's like a game- Suit My Needs or Playing God.
I imagine what it would be like if I were to pit myself against one of my characters. Perhaps Sam- a super genius who controls fire. I would mentally pluck him from his story, (I probably won't finnish it, anyway.) and put him in a whole new situation. The plot seems obvious. He would discover my presence with the help of one of his inventions; a device that picks up on radiation. He would slowly deduct that I was there by peicing together clues I would leave for him, like mysterious telephone messages, or bookmarks in encyclopeidias. He would go bravely to my lair- an underground mansion, thinking that he could destroy this evil. Then I would toy with him, create some tension. Slowly, I would make him go insane. In the end, he would die of a cancer he never knew he had, in the liver, lets say, one that I had placed in him. I can see the last sentence now (from Sam's point of veiw-) "I closed my eyes, defeated for the first and only time."
Come to think of it, that would make a good story... look out, Sam! I'm coming for you.
For instance, is one character getting too strong? Would they make for a boring story with an obvious end? Change them. Better yet, trash them, forget that I ever thought of them.
Is the villians motives too convining? Make him the hero, instead.
Too funny? Add a tragedy to their early life. Too sad? Give them a sheltered life. Too smart? Find a reason for them to skip school for a few years. Too dumb? Throw in a parent with high expectations.
Like a tornado, I wizz through their world, tweeking and changing the fundamentals of who they are, what they know. It's like a game- Suit My Needs or Playing God.
I imagine what it would be like if I were to pit myself against one of my characters. Perhaps Sam- a super genius who controls fire. I would mentally pluck him from his story, (I probably won't finnish it, anyway.) and put him in a whole new situation. The plot seems obvious. He would discover my presence with the help of one of his inventions; a device that picks up on radiation. He would slowly deduct that I was there by peicing together clues I would leave for him, like mysterious telephone messages, or bookmarks in encyclopeidias. He would go bravely to my lair- an underground mansion, thinking that he could destroy this evil. Then I would toy with him, create some tension. Slowly, I would make him go insane. In the end, he would die of a cancer he never knew he had, in the liver, lets say, one that I had placed in him. I can see the last sentence now (from Sam's point of veiw-) "I closed my eyes, defeated for the first and only time."
Come to think of it, that would make a good story... look out, Sam! I'm coming for you.
The Making of a Writer
I was destined to be a writer from the start. I was only three days old when my parents started reading to me. Before long I was following their pointer finger as they underlined each word they said. I stared in wonder and confusion at the lines on the paper, trying to figure out how my mother got those words from the book.
When I was three, my mom started something that would start me on the story-making path forever. I was a fan of Winnie the pooh. I knew every character and how they knew everyone else. Every night I would ask my mom to tell me a story. Every night, she would do just that. I don't know where she got this idea, but she would go over the events of that day as if Winnie and his friends were with me the whole time. It seems silly now, but I really got into it. I would ask her what a specific character thought about something, or what they had all done together.
Not much after that, I started writing my own stories. I got a notebook with a space for pictures on each page. One of my parents would write as I talked about my day, and then I would color a picture.
When I was in first grade, I don't remember having many friends. But that turned out to be a good thing. I already loved reading by then, and my favorite series was the rainbow fairies. (It's embarrassing, but I have to tell this story right.) Every recess, I would conjure up the fairies and imagine that I was one of them. I would use the people from the book, but I would also add new ones, like when one of the fairies had a baby brother who could time travel.
Second grade rolled around, and I had a new make-believe story. My dad is a big fan of basketball, and had given me a bobble head of one of his favorite players, Lauren Jackson of the Sounders Storm. She was on the girls team, and for some reason, it struck me as revolutionary that a girl could star in a sport. This inspired Action Jackson, a super-strong, super-fast superhero girl, who went on loads of adventures with other power-packed people, (and me). Action was real to me. I colored a place mat for her at our dinner table, and I dished her up some 'food' while really just waving the spoon around.
My first semi-serious attempt at writing a story came in forth grade. I wrote a short (really short,) story about a were-wolf named Sara-lee. I cringe looking back on it. It was horrid. But I had to start somewhere.
In fifth grade, my moms old collage roommate and her family came to visit us. I bonded with her daughter, who was a year older than me, almost instantly. We both loved writing, thought boys were stupid, and we both hated tomatoes. We wanted to write a story together via the wonders of the internet. My first idea was to e-mail each other a chapter at a time, but mom (man, she is really important in this story!) had a better idea. Thanks to her, we made a blog. It's called young authors ink. (don't try to find it, my mom made us put up a password.) That blog is still going, though not on the same story. We haven't finished a single one because we have short attention spans, but we'll get there.
My first poem came in 2011. It was based off of something I saw on discovery channel on vultures, as well as musings on a tree full of crows. It was titled 'Ode to Vultures and Crows', and it detailed why these black birds are so great.
Just this year, I discovered TeenInk. I have put all my best work, new and old, there. It is the first time I've had my work put out where everyone can see it and rate it, and so far, I'm like'n it.
I really hope this story isn't over. Maybe someday, I'll dig this out of the computer and continue it. But until then, I guess this, my first autobiography, is another step down the road.
When I was three, my mom started something that would start me on the story-making path forever. I was a fan of Winnie the pooh. I knew every character and how they knew everyone else. Every night I would ask my mom to tell me a story. Every night, she would do just that. I don't know where she got this idea, but she would go over the events of that day as if Winnie and his friends were with me the whole time. It seems silly now, but I really got into it. I would ask her what a specific character thought about something, or what they had all done together.
Not much after that, I started writing my own stories. I got a notebook with a space for pictures on each page. One of my parents would write as I talked about my day, and then I would color a picture.
When I was in first grade, I don't remember having many friends. But that turned out to be a good thing. I already loved reading by then, and my favorite series was the rainbow fairies. (It's embarrassing, but I have to tell this story right.) Every recess, I would conjure up the fairies and imagine that I was one of them. I would use the people from the book, but I would also add new ones, like when one of the fairies had a baby brother who could time travel.
Second grade rolled around, and I had a new make-believe story. My dad is a big fan of basketball, and had given me a bobble head of one of his favorite players, Lauren Jackson of the Sounders Storm. She was on the girls team, and for some reason, it struck me as revolutionary that a girl could star in a sport. This inspired Action Jackson, a super-strong, super-fast superhero girl, who went on loads of adventures with other power-packed people, (and me). Action was real to me. I colored a place mat for her at our dinner table, and I dished her up some 'food' while really just waving the spoon around.
My first semi-serious attempt at writing a story came in forth grade. I wrote a short (really short,) story about a were-wolf named Sara-lee. I cringe looking back on it. It was horrid. But I had to start somewhere.
In fifth grade, my moms old collage roommate and her family came to visit us. I bonded with her daughter, who was a year older than me, almost instantly. We both loved writing, thought boys were stupid, and we both hated tomatoes. We wanted to write a story together via the wonders of the internet. My first idea was to e-mail each other a chapter at a time, but mom (man, she is really important in this story!) had a better idea. Thanks to her, we made a blog. It's called young authors ink. (don't try to find it, my mom made us put up a password.) That blog is still going, though not on the same story. We haven't finished a single one because we have short attention spans, but we'll get there.
My first poem came in 2011. It was based off of something I saw on discovery channel on vultures, as well as musings on a tree full of crows. It was titled 'Ode to Vultures and Crows', and it detailed why these black birds are so great.
Just this year, I discovered TeenInk. I have put all my best work, new and old, there. It is the first time I've had my work put out where everyone can see it and rate it, and so far, I'm like'n it.
I really hope this story isn't over. Maybe someday, I'll dig this out of the computer and continue it. But until then, I guess this, my first autobiography, is another step down the road.
Hero
I don't need to be swept off my feet, I don't have a Dragon who must be beat
I am a Hero-o! My own Hero-o!
Say what you will about fairy tales, And how true love never fails
I'm my own Hero-o! My own Hero-o!
I don't need someone to tell me I'm grand I already know who I am!
The Daughter of a Hero! Daughter of a Hero-o!
He carried me along the way! He made me who I am today!
He made me a Hero-o! He made me a Hero-o!
He made the sky and He made the sea, He made me who I want to be,
He is the real Hero-o! He is the real Hero-o!
Thank you God for your Son, Who made sure that I won,
Thank you for the Hero-o! Thank you for the Hero-o!
He beckons us 'come follow me' that with God we can be
Follow the Hero-o! The mighty Hero-o!
I am a Hero-o! My own Hero-o!
Say what you will about fairy tales, And how true love never fails
I'm my own Hero-o! My own Hero-o!
I don't need someone to tell me I'm grand I already know who I am!
The Daughter of a Hero! Daughter of a Hero-o!
He carried me along the way! He made me who I am today!
He made me a Hero-o! He made me a Hero-o!
He made the sky and He made the sea, He made me who I want to be,
He is the real Hero-o! He is the real Hero-o!
Thank you God for your Son, Who made sure that I won,
Thank you for the Hero-o! Thank you for the Hero-o!
He beckons us 'come follow me' that with God we can be
Follow the Hero-o! The mighty Hero-o!
Parody of 'Scripture Power'
Because I am so lazy, I just want to sit down.
I'm turning up the volume, I'm flipping channels 'round.
Because I have the remote and electricity,
I'm changing what I watch, I'm loving my TV!
Cable power, Lets me watch a show,
Cable power, it's the best, you know!
Cable power, every day I need
The mind numbing effects
Of the big screen!
I'm turning up the volume, I'm flipping channels 'round.
Because I have the remote and electricity,
I'm changing what I watch, I'm loving my TV!
Cable power, Lets me watch a show,
Cable power, it's the best, you know!
Cable power, every day I need
The mind numbing effects
Of the big screen!
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