Weekly Vignette

Here’s this week’s vignette, late as usual~

He was loved

He was lost

He was back

But still gone

No one heard

Those nightly cries

No one saw

The tears in his eyes

But one

And none could help

He was changed;

Hurt

And none knew what to do

He crashed

He fell

Broken in the well

Waiting to be found

And healed again

So this one, unlike a lot of others, does have a bit of meaning to it. Well… They all had meaning, but I’m referring to a meaning I’ve actually found, which is the truth in this case. I’m writing a ton of new stories and books, one of which is a kind of new thing for me; A science fiction novel. It’s about a little boy (Noah) who goes missing, and after two years, his friends are broken and the whole town assumes he’s dead. But he comes back. At first, everybody’s just relieved to have him back, after two years gone, and his family just wants a break from all the hounding reporters, weekly doctors appointments, and police inquiries, but his best friend Jamie starts to pick out things in Noah that are different; Scared, and hurt.

Noah wasn’t just missing. He came across a secret government facility in the woods, and he saw just a little bit too much. It was all good for them; Just another lab rat to experiment on. But when the one test subject that actually fit for them -and a cunning alien entity- escapes, his mind carrying more than just traumatic experiences, what does it mean for them? Or for Noah, who is feeling less and less him each day and not knowing how to deal with it?

Yup. Kind of a creepy story about a kid who’s given powers by a crazy alien inhabiting his mind, with the government after him. Can you tell I’ve been watching X-files?

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Weekly Vignette

Happy Friday all! Finally, the weekend is here. In celebration, here’s a little blab I wrote a couple nights ago at an ungodly hour after I’d experienced the very prominent urge to throw my notebook across the room.

What is being a writer like to you? Today (or night, at the time I am writing this), I asked myself that same question. What is being a writer to me? What is writing to me?

Well, to put it simply, I have a very dedicated love-hate relationship with writing.

Half of the time, I’m on a roll, filling page after page like a pro, my mind seeming to be a wondrous, never-ending field of ideas, all fuller and richer than even my mom’s chocolate mousse, which takes a lot. I can’t stop, and before I know it, it’s 3 am and I’m wishing myself a happy Easter. I can hardly put into words how wonderful the feeling of a full, focused mind is. To me, at least, it’s one of the best feelings there is. Those are the times I love being a writer.

Then there are times when my mind just stops, either completely empty or so full that it’s clogged up my thought pipes (yes I just made that up) like the shower drain after I wash my hair. There are times when I’m so overwhelmed by my own flood of ideas that I feel like bashing my head repeatedly against whatever’s available at the moment. Usually a wall. Everything mixes into one big simmer pot of pandemonium, and i can’t tell which ideas are good or bad, useful or useless, fitting or completely wrong, or even which ideas are mine and which are someone else’s. I want to walk away -I need to-, but it only feels worse; I am so compelled, so glued to the pages before me; Like the ideas, no matter how confused or ill-fitted or just plain bad, are dropping weight after weight onto my shoulders, dragging my back to my death, better known as my abyss of notebooks, all half-filled and waiting. Those are the times I hate being a writer.

And then there is writer’s block- For hours on end, whatever comes out of my pen automatically strikes me as not good enough; Not Maggie at all. I fill pages, but the words are empty to me; Meaningless. That is even worse than when I can’t write at all. Those, too, are the times I hate being a writer.

And yes- Even though there are times I want to punch somebody’s -occasionally my own- brains right out, or shout things a twelve-year-old (much less anyone) should ever say in life’s brutal face, or simply cry into my pillow, I love being a writer. Because, this very day, what was it that brought me to write, but my own anger towards it? Although… I can say this one thing: I understand why my dad is a poet.

Weekly Vignette

Here we go~ I am a slacker.

TIME-

Lost time

Found time

Running out of town time

My time

Your time,

Used to do what?

Lay in bed,

Close your eyes,

Wake up in due time;

Get up,

Get dressed,

It’s hard to be on time.

So difficult,

Our humble creation

Of time.

Partly because I’m on spring break and am not entirely sure what to do with this time, and partly because I felt like it, this week’s vignette is a poem about time. We found (or created or invented or discovered) time to help us keep track of ourselves, yet it seems to be one of the things in life that gives us the most trouble today.

Weekly Vignette

Here’s this week’s-

Why do we write? The wander to that is one that, perhaps, I’ll never know. Writing, like most other things humans like me (and some not like me) have taken to doing, just is. There is sometimes a very good reason, and sometimes not. Why is a question I find to be very repetitive in life. For every question there is an answer, and every answer has a why. I’ve stopped trying to figure it out. Why do our hearts beat? Why do we breath in air, knowing that we’re going to die anyway? Because. That simple word- The most infuriating yet so incredibly TRUE answer. A lot of the time, there’s nothing but that- Just a simple “because”. And that is often times is all that is needed.

Why do we create?For that, there are so many answers. To me… The answer is love. My body -and all of ours- is a work; It can be beautiful. The beats of our hearts are music. The gleams of our eyes are precious gems. My love for nature’s pure, simple, unaltered beauty, raw as an unpolished diamond- That is what drives me to create. My art, no matter what form it takes, is mine; nature’s; my heart’s. And I make it for all the amazing people out there. And most importantly… For myself. I make. Art and write stories (Sometimes only page-long blabs) because I love it. After all, isn’t that how it should be?

~There you go! Another little bit of writing.😋

Backstory…

…As I said before. 😊

Sam grew up (and continues to grow up) in quite a big house with her mom, dad, big bro, dog, grandmother, huge dog, and aunt and uncle ( mom’s side) in a very nourishing, happy environment. Her family used to own a restaurant, but decided to quit it and settle down. But they still cook. A LOT. Grandma Clarissa is the kitchen boss. Do NOT mess with grandma. She may be 75, but she can swing a frying pan like a pro. Sam was raised on these three words: Love, Comedy, and Food. She and her brother have the typical (I think) love-hate relationship. “Stop beating up my baby sis. Only I’m allowed to do that.” Sam has very strong lungs, due to being plopped upon often by her giant Newfoundland pup, Berry. She got into dancing at a young age, and hasn’t stopped since. She gardens a lot with mom, which resulted in even darker skin than the rest of her family. Her bro Moses nicknamed her roasted chestnut because of this. She is super duper clumsy to the tenth power. The Parlor family takes long road trips together, in which Jo was later included. Speaking of Jo…

…Her family life is basically the opposite of Sam’s. Her dad loves her more than anything else in the world, and would do anything to ensure that she lives a long, happy life. To make up for her not-so-happy early life. Jo grew up in a distant, breaking family, with an angry alcoholic mom that was anything but helpful to her ‘husband’ after the pregnancy. She went out drinking a lot, resulting in health problems for her baby girl, until her dad David realizing what was happening and switching to formula milk in a bottle. Toddler Jo was often caught hiding from brutal verbal and occasionally violent fights. As she grew, she became quite a closed-off, wise-cracking, cold little girl. At age 3 and a half, she and Sam met at a pizza party, bonding over a mutual fear of clowns (there was one at the party).

The Parlors eventually took Jo and David in as their own. Sam promised to always, no matter what, when, why, where, or how, be there for her best friend.

And there you have it! One vague and kind of emotionally troubling backstory. 😁

Weekly blab

Only the third blab and I’m already slacking… Yay me! Anyways, here you go~ The blab that was supposed to be posted Friday. Hope you like it!

Merrill Parlor laughed as her tiny bean pole of a daughter dragged her forward, pointing out numerous bright, vibrant things in the grocery store. For being so small, Sam certainly carried a generous amount of strength.

“Look, mommy!” The six-year-old exclaimed. She pointed an eager finger at the Valentine’s Day flower stand, bathed in red, white, and pink decor. “I wanna buy you a rose! Can I?” Merrill smiled and shook her head. “No, Sammy. But thanks.” Sam pouted. “Daw…” However, almost immediately, her sad demeanor perked up, almost literally glowing. “Josie!” She yelped. “Sam!” Another familiar little girl cried. Jo ran up an embraced her best friend, before the two young girls ran off into the holiday displays, chattering excitedly. Merrill was left alone.

Alone… Only spoiled by one very lost-looking man. Jo’s father. It wasn’t until he shuffled nervously forward that Merril realized this was the first time she’d seen -really seen- the man outside of formality. She’d expected to feel happy to finally speak to him, but instead of joy, an unpleasant, uncertain feeling writhed in her gut. It wasn’t one solid emotion, really – More like a hybridization of feelings she couldn’t quite comprehend. Thanks, for bringing such an amazing child into the Parlors’ life. Loathing, for pawning off his child to another family instead of nurturing her himself . And… pity? Where had that come from?

Perhaps it was from his big, watery, and ever so sad blue eyes, or the way his dull brown hair and beard sat unkept upon his sunken face. Maybe it was his hunched position, brought on by the lack of effort put into his own well being, expended instead on that of Jo, and— Whoa, thought Merril. How incredibly poetic of me.

“Uh…” The woman chastised herself on the thought put into that comment. “Merril-” she said stiffly, extending a hand. She was admittedly quite unsure of how to go about their introductions. “I’m Sam’s mom, but you probably know that already…” Instead of having her hand shaken, Merril was soon enveloped in the man’s small, fragile arms, and the slight smell of stale coconut shampoo.

“Thank you,” he said, voice like a mouse. “Thank you, thank you, thank you so much…” Merril awkwardly accepted the hug. “…For loving my Josie in a way I never could. Thank you.”

“I…” Merril muttered, shocked by the sheer gratefulness overflowing from his words. “Anytime. Sam’s family is her family, as long as they’re friends.” The man chuckled. He stepped back, an apology in his eyes. “Er…Sorry for being so abrupt. I’m just grateful she has someone.” He gazed sadly at his daughter. “There’s not that much I have left to give.” Merril felt her earlier resolve melting. “It’s fine,” she replied with a laugh. “And as for their friendship, I don’t think they’ll be growing apart anytime soon.” The two watched the girls rocked back and forth on the toy horse happily.

“I’m David, by the way. ” The man said. “And yes- I know all about you. And Sam. And gran Clarissa. And Jeremiah. And Moses. And aunt Paris and uncle Will. And Berry…” He laughed, and though it was quiet, Merril was soothed by the small noise- The knowledge that David did in fact do more than just talk. “You’re practically all she talks about!” A smile came to Merril’s face. “Really?” She watched as the two girls giggled. “…I’m glad to hear it.”

~Yay!!!! Another blab done. You’ll probably be getting some backstory on all these characters soon.