I’m going into high school in August. At the end of the year, students from my class desperately wanted to go to high school. They wanted a change. Three years of middle school, here’s your consolation prize, kids: four years of high school. Happy, happy day. And it was. Because for once, I was running with the herd. I couldn’t wait to be a mature freshman. Now, i’m having nightmares about forgetting the Pythagorean theorem. Not cool. I’m afraid. Afraid that I’ll get lost, that I won’t keep up with my classes, that the teachers will hate me. I’m afraid.

I look back on my blog, which was started more than a year ago, and everything seems recent. I feel like my life is rushing by me, things are changing and I am never going to catch up. I will never be this young again. Soon, I’ll be getting a job, parading for colleges, and being an all “A” student just isn’t going to cut it. I’m going have to change for high school: change how I act, change how I spend my time, change my gym uniform. I never used to see the world this way, as a conundrum of what has changed and what was going to. I’ve never been so confused over how to proceed. I just relied on my parents to make sure I had everything I needed. But I’m turning fifteen in October and the time to be needy and childish is trickling to an end. It’s time for a change.

I used to be great friends with my sister. Now, we argue more often than have fun. I didn’t notice it happening. I didn’t notice things changing. And I know I sound like a girl who didn’t know her boyfriend would break up with her, but I never saw it coming, and now I don’t know how to fix it. I can’t go out and find a new sister after crying on my friends shoulders. I don’t always like change. I don’t always want it. Denise says: “If you don’t like how something is going in your life, change it.” When I asked: “What about the things you can’t change?” She told me: “Wait until you can”. I can change things between my sister and me, I know I can. But I was stupid. Because I never asked Denise: “What if I don’t know how?”

I have a cockatiel. A lovely pearl cockatiel with gray and white and yellow feathers. I am ashamed to say, I don’t spend a lot of time with him. I suck as a pet owner. Lyra is going to live for thirty years. I think it’s time that I change my ways.

I bet you all are wondering why I’m writing all this. My blog, for months now has been composed of Six Word Sundays, and when I was feeling really creative, a Six word Monday, or even *gasp* a Six word Sunday (Belated). Exciting. So, this is for all the empty words, empty weeks, empty posts. I don’t want to be a burnt out blogger and I’m not going to  let my laziness keep me from succeeding.

It’s time for a change.

A change that will work for me.

A change that will be un-debatably for the better.

My change is starting with this post.

This is my 645 word Wednesday.

My Metaphor

I was dreaming

I went to the knitting closet

and opened it

to find my nest

of yarn balls

bright eggs

neat

perfect

Every one

But, thats not true

One stands out

Different

In a bad way

filled with

thorns

twists

tangles

I pull the ends

work loose the thorns

unravel the knots

until my fingers bleed and ache

It’s no use.

It won’t be flat

It won’t be like the rest

It will always be different

In a bad way.

They say dreams

are reflections

of what you feel

or what bothers you

They represent things.

The tangled yarn?

I think it’s me.

See? What did I tell you? Poetry just isn’t something I can do. Not well, at least. Thank goodness we never got around to the project.

I sat in history class, listening to Mr. L drone on about something I don’t care about, while Ms. D smiles and nods like he’s saying something profound. I connect the dots on the ceiling panels to make images of tiger faces, rearing horses, sleeping dogs, huge monsters. They leap out of the ceiling in a waterfall of earthy brown and gray furs, and carry me away in a sea of warm, furry bodies. I turn into a wolf and join a pack, soft, furred paws tamping down the summer-sweet smelling loam of the forest, leaves coalescing into an emerald tapestry above my head. Shrubs cling like terrified children to the age-cracked trunks of ancient trees, the smell of deer and rainwater scent the air. I come to a stream, clear and mountain fresh, spring grasses, new and green, sway to the music of a quiet wind along side the water. Suddenly, I’m a horse, but it doesn’t feel sudden, or jarring, it just is. The pack melts into the woods like so many shadows, hungry amber eyes winking like golden fireflies in the stray sunlight that unwittingly wanders into the trees. I change course, trotting alongside the meandering stream, until I reach a field, filled with bold jade grass, brilliant with fireworks of clusters of wildflowers. It is dotted with bluebells, daffodils, sunflowers which turn rapt faces toward the sun, monitoring its golden chariot ride across the sky. The stream feeds itself into a pool that shimmers blue like a morpho butterfly’s wing, rife with a promise of cool relief in the heat of the afternoon. Having gotten here, I am myself again, and I lie in the sweet, sunburned grass, and feel the golden beams of sunlight caress my upturned face with the delicacy of a feather from a Pegasus’s wing, let my hair fall in riotous tangles about my head like a caramel colored halo, and just breathe in the delicate perfume of wildflowers in this place untouched by people, untouched by the poisons that humans seem determined to leak into this planet.

I have just realized that I’ve written another “springtime”-y post. More likely than not, it will snow tomorrow because I’ve jinxed the good weather. Again. Anyway, that was a pretty good dream. In fact, it was almost cliched in how cheerful and upbeat it was. Darn! I’m having stereotypical dreams! Kill me now…

Cat, vase, car, tree, and bookshelf.

Prepare yourself.

They had no clue what was coming. The sweet, black cat with the perfect four-pointed  star on its forehead and the butterscotch colored eyes seemed harmless, pitiful even, sitting on their doorstep, whiskers drooping in the heavy rainfall. It looked sorrowfully up at them and gave an imploring “Mew?” The nice, middle-aged couple and their three kids could never resist such a charming kitty.

But they would grow to wish they had.

Every day, the kids would look out the window of the first floor to see the kitty sitting in a huge weeping willow tree, it’s fur shimmering in the sunlight, ruffled by the light breeze. Alaric, as the cat had been named, was serene, so graceful that he could jump atop a vase without rocking it, and inconspicuous, but at the same time regal.  His fur was so black, it seemed to absorb the sunlight, and cast out darkness in it’s place.Alaric loved high places, especially the tops of bookshelves and trees. He wanted to be able to see everything without being seen. One night, as another rainstorm raged, the family was driving home from dinner in their car, a Prius.

They got out of the car and were soldiering through the cruel Illinois wind, rain whipping their faces. The woman saw a dark shape sitting expectantly on the porch steps. Amber eyes glowed out from the darkness, holding malicious intent. For a moment, the woman was scared, until she recognized Alaric.

“You scared me, sweet kitty,” she said with a smile, in the tone that all cat lovers use. She was so busy petting Alaric’s soft, damp fur that she didn’t notice the amber eyes as they slowly bled to red, didn’t hear the soft “ching” of his fangs coming out. She drew back to look at Alaric, but as soon as she saw that her “sweet kitty” was no longer a cat at all, but rather a bloodsucking vampire, the cat attacked.

Alaric drank his fill, killing the entire family. He licked the blood from his fur, then sauntered over to the neighbor’s house and scratched at the door. The elderly woman opened the door, and smiled at the cat she saw there. “Mew?” he said imploringly. The old woman couldn’t resist the beautiful cat.

But she would grow to wish she had.

Creepy, right? I admit, I am perpetuating bad vampire stereotypes, with the glowing red eyes/killing children/dark and stormy night thing, but this was my first vampire story. Ever. I’ll do better next time (I hope). Also, some charming vampire lolcats…

Vampire Cat doing what vampires do best

The Vampire Le-cat (bad pun, I know. Anne Rice would have my head)

Elizabeth was a small, wiry girl. She had chestnut brown hair that fell in tight curls across her slim shoulders. She wore leggings and an oversized sweatshirt, and she loved her birthday. Every birthday, she would lift her pillow in the morning and find a huge chocolate heart, resting like a tangible symbol of her parent’s love, on her bed. She would pick up the heart and bite into it, closing her eyes with bliss. Caramel, thick and buttery, would trail in long strings from the heart, until a giggling Elizabeth would bite them off. It tasted like heaven, wrapped in milk chocolate.

It was her ninth birthday and in the morning, Elizabeth, giddy with excitement, lifted her pillow to find…nothing. Nothing but her crisp, cool, white sheets which, as tears blurred her vision, seemed to goad her. Elizabeth had, just recently, gotten braces, and therefore could no longer eat caramel. But nothing could distract her from the ire that had swept in to quickly chase away the hurt. How dare they refuse her the highlight of her birthday? How DARE they?! She stomped down the stairs to the kitchen, her footsteps like thunder, threatening a storm. She met her mothers kind, compassionate, brown eyes with her anger-filled ones. Her mother had short, lusterous brown hair, and a curving mouth that always seemed ready to curve into a smile, or  offer kind words.

“Where is my chocolate heart?!” Elizabeth screamed. “WHERE IS IT?!” With each word, her voice became shriller, until it reached a screech. Her mother quietly, calmly explained, as she always did when Elizabeth lost her temper.

“You know you can’t have caramel, Elizabeth. Your braces–” Elizabeth cut her off.

“I WANT my chocolate heart!!” The next moment, her father leaned over her, imposing. Her father was a big man, tall and muscular, intelligent eyes glinting from beneath thick eyebrows.

“You can’t have it,” He boomed, his voice ringing with finality.

Elizabeth shrieked with frustration, darted up the stairs and hid in the bathroom, trying to calm down. It wasn’t working. She ran to her room, snatched the pillow from the bed and hit it against the bed, again and again, until she noticed something odd. On her bed were the crushed remains of many, many chocolate bars, their raspberry, chocolate, mint and otherwise filling dripping slowly onto the bed, staining the pristine sheets. A note, splattered with striking splashes of red and brown from the chocolate, read:

We’re Sorry, Elizabeth. We’re sorry you couldn’t have a chocolate heart this year. We love you.

Always.

Elizabeth’s tears started anew. She set down the pillow gently on the bed and slowly walked to the door, tears dripping down her face and falling, a perfect drop of moisture, to dampen and darken the carpet. She progressed down the hall, a sick feeling growing in her stomach, gnawing at her throat, causing her knees to wobble. She carefully walked down each step, watching her feet, keeping her eyes on the ground, eyes blurry with tears. She only wanted one thing for her birthday now: forgiveness.

She softly padded into the kitchen, quiet as a scared kitten. She looked up at her parents faces. Her father looked grim. Her mother, disappointed. Her mother never looked disappointed. Elizabeth’s tears redoubled.

She wailed, “I am so sorry! I didn’t see the note…or the chocolate…or anything! I am so sorry…so sorry…so…sorry… Please, please, forgive me!” She broke off into sniveling. As she looked up at her mother with tear stained cheeks, she saw her mother’s face soften. Without saying a word, her mother reached out and stroked Elizabeth’s cheek.

Just once.

  I went to theater class, mentally reviewing what I might be doing that day. When I stepped into the class room, I knew something was wrong, but I couldn’t put my finger on it. Could it be that Knicky, that annoying boy who always said that vampire books were stupid because vampires “don’t exist”, only had tentacles where his obnoxious head should have been? Or that Tulip and Delly, the girls I talk  about Trueblood and Buffy with happened to have very long canines (fangs?)? Something seemed just a little off. Tulip was discussing Bill vs. Eric so I chatted with them for a while until the longing glances they were casting at my neck got a little creepy. I traipsed over to Britain (that’s a name, not a country) and whispered in his ear, “Had you noticed things are kind of weird today?”

“Hey! We heard that!” shouted Tulip and Delly.

“Sorry! But not weird in a bad way, of course! Fangs are in!” Mollified, they resumed their discussion. Britain told me, “You should be careful what you say. Vampires have great hearing.” Well, duh. But who in the room could possibly be a vampire? Anyway, Britain continued, “We have to get out of here. Let’s take the private jet!” Oooo-kay. Where did that come from? We headed outside and lo and behold, the sleek silver jet was right there in the parking lot. I climbed on board, took a seat, and decided to ask Britain, ”Where exactly are we going?”

“Anywhere you want. That’s the nce thing about running away, isn’t it?” He cast a leisurly smile towards me.

“Um…I guess so. ” A thought struck me. “What about class? We’re supposed to tell the teacher if we’re going to be absent!”

“No worries. Tulip and Delly drank her blood. So, where are we going? We need to tell the pilot soon, or he’ll take us to Antarctica.” He eyed my summer sundress sceptically.”I  Hardly think your dressed for that kind of weather.”

“Your right. Well then, how about Paris? I like Paris.” Apparentely the shock of the past few minutes was getting to me. I barely ever speak in “I Like” sentances, because they are overused and pathetic. The plane ride to Paris only took a few minutes, which didn’t surprise me because I was quickly learning that nothing was impossible and that people who thought otherwise ended up with tentacles where their heads should be. Britain and I used the minutes happily bantering about who would replace our teacher if Tulip and Delly decided not to change her.

  The plane landed on the roof of a lovely Parisian national landmark, and Britain took my hand to help me down. We roamed the streets of Paris, eating street food and talking merrily until Britain froze beside me. I turned towards him, my head tilted inquiringly.

” What is it? What’s wrong?” Britain raised a stiff finger and pointed through the crowds at a dark haired man who was immobile the way only vampires can be. Britain said but two words,

“He’s here” I squinted through my glasses to see who it was, and my face lit up when I recognized him. I dragged Britain through the throngs of people until we came to the dark-haired green eyed vampire, Constantine.

” Hi,” I said shyly. “You’re Constantine, right?”

“Indeed, I am.” He replied, smiling gently, obviously indulging the vampire-obsessed fangirl.

“We have to get out of here! He’ll kill us!” Britain protested.

” No, he won’t kill us,” I replied, never removing my gaze from my idol. “He’s my friend.” Britain smiled at me once more, than dissapeared in a poof of earl grey scented mist, and the echoing words, “I’m going home, then.”

“Are you hungry?” asked Constantine “Or thirsty?”

” Yes, actually I am,” I said tentativey. “But first I have a question.”

“Ask away.” said Constantine, with a gentle smile.

” Well, don’t take this the wrong way, but why are you being so nice to me?”

“It’s your dream. You don’t want me to be mean, so I’m not.”

That interested me. “So I can make you do the chicken dance in a pink tutu?” The corners of my lips quirked up mischeiviously at the mental image.

“Yes, you can,” He grimaced. “ But I would really prefer you not.”

” All right I won’t” I said giddily. “but no promises on not making you play American Idol Encore with me later!”

Heaving a long suffering sigh, Constantine picked my ecstatic self up and ran with vampire speed to a lovely little cafe, where I was just beginning the first of the 8 courses planned for me, and Con had just started his Trueblood (yes, I know, book overlap and all that, but as Con said, it’s my dream!), then I was woken up.

I must say, this dream was considerably better than the other one. I must say though, I should have made Con do the chicken dance in a pink tutu. That would have been hilarious!

1. The person is more imaginative than other people. If this is the case, the author can switch between whats really happening and the main charecters fantasy/perspective.

2. The person has a secret. That is kind of broad and can be fantasy or realistic, so here are some realistic ones. The person knows a secret about someone that would ruin their lives if it got out, so the person is hiding from the person whose life would be ruined. The person is a murdurer and doesn’t want to be caught. The person is hiding something to protect somone else. I’ll say more about potential secrets later.

3. The person has a (fantasy) secret. Unrealistic examples of secrets: The person has a superpower and doesn’t want to be revealed. The person has a curse upon them. The person is actually a different species, but doesn’t know it (like a fairy changeling. The person might know that they’re different, too.)

4. The person is mentally scarred. This DOES NOT mean crazy. It means they have an event in their past that has changed them forever, like a parent dying, or witnessing a murder. It could even be something as simple as falling off a couch, to cause an eternal and unrelenting fear of couches. Who knows?

5. The person could have a deteriorating  mental state due to stress or other factors in his/her life. This is the type of story that, if written well enough, makes many people, including me, cry.

Secrets (realistic): Being Gay or Lesbian An affair. Commiting or hiding a murder. Stealing. Basically, anything that could wound a persons reputation, mental state, something frowned upon in society, etc. The list is endless, and remember, a secret isn’t always hiding a bad thing.

Secrets (unrealistic): Can perform magic. Can fly. Can read minds. Super Strength. A fairy Changeling. A shape-shifter. A vampire. If the list of realistic secrets was endless, this one is doubly so. Your secret doesn’t have to be huge like being a vampire: all it takes is something that really differentiates you from the rest, like you’re 1/8 mermaid so, though you don’t have scales or a tail, you swim really well and have an amazing singing voice. In the aforesaid case, the story could be about how an outcast won American Idol because of her mermaid heritage. Anyway, secrets are what make things interesting, right?

Therefore, I hope Alice-marie finds a good direction for her story to go. She has a ton of talent, so I’m sure that whatever she decides to do, it will be Awesome!

  i wandered through the abandoned construction site, and into the deserted playhouse. I ducked under and around chunks of sandy earth, the smell of rot reaching my nose. I had never been here before, but I knew something was here. Finally, I came to a large mirror, framed in wrought iron, cloudy with age. I stepped up to it. This is what I was loking for. I placed my hand up to it, and it rippled as my hand sunk through the surface. It was cool but not cold, contrasting with the heated earth below me. I stepped into the mirror, immersing myself in the coolness of that ocean of what should have been hard, but wasn’t. I felt utterly fearless, the call still drew me forwards.

 I walked along the tall, wide tunnel, my sneakers sinkng into the sodden earth. I came to a crossroads, where many tunnels intersected my own, but that was not the oddest thing. There were children, probably hundreds of them, walking silently along the space where all the tunnels widened into one huge one. They didn’t socialize or fall out of step, or even move their eyes. I ran up to a girl clutching a teddy bear under her frail arm.

I tapped her on the shoulder. “What are you all doing here? What is this place?” I felt the first penetration of fear through the protective numbness that had gathered around me as she turned her glassy, ice-blue eyes on me and made her reply in a Drucilla from Buffy the Vampire Slayer voice.

“We are here because He wants us to be. Perhaps I shall be lucky today.” With a creepy, unsettling, high pitched giggle, the girl turned away. We came to a large cavern, the walls of which were set with emeralds, rubies and obsidian. The children all lined up, expressionless eyes trained on another tunnel that led to the cavern. From the tunnel came a hissing sound that chilled me to the bone. All at one the numbness evaporated. I wanted to run away, to get out and never have to see what comes out of that tunnel, but I was rooted in place.  Out of the darkness emerged a gigantic snake, it’s scales as brilliant green as the emeralds, its eyes as beady black as the obsidian. Its mouth stained as red as the rubies. Stained by blood. The dark eyes surveyed each child carefully, then its head shot down, and it swallowed the frail little girl with the teddy bear whole. The others looked on, dispassionately.

I exploded, my feet no longer rooted, the strange curse lifted by the heat of my anger. “How can you just stand there and watch? Don’t you have souls?”

Hundreds of indifferent eyes turned towards me as they all uttered a single word in unison.

“No.”

I was woken by Liz poking my foot and asking me why I was sleeping on the couch. I guess the lesson of this story is that I sleepwalk.

1. As the captain of a cursed ship, you knew reprecussions would come, but you never knew what they would be, until now…

(That one is kind of pirate-y , and if you don’t want it to be, ship can be changed into house, car, etc. Also, you can change it into a story where the captain doesn’t know the ship is cursed. Genre: Fantasy/ mystery?)

2. During the civil war, a slave must choose between her/his best friend who is also the daughter/son of the slave holder, and freeing her family…

(Ouch. That one is a little hard. It’s like Edward vs. Jacob. Not to mention for the author, you have to find out why the main character has to choose. Genre: Historical fiction)

3. A half-fae girl is being targeted by a vampire cult, one of the members of which was killed by her mother. As the vampires close in, the girl makes an unlikely alliance with one of their members who is allegedly a spy for an enemy group. The only problem is that as the destined mate of this vampire, they must go through a trial that decides whether or not the vampires soul will be saved by her. As the vampire attempts to resist the delicious smell of the girls blood that is so tantalizing because of her fairy origins, the girl is finding something quite different irresistible…

(Yuck, that last line made me gag. This one is pretty complicated. I don’t know how to write romance prompts, but I figure this one is pretty good. Anyway, you should note how I said “allegedly”. He could betray her, and you could cut out the part about destined mates. Anyway, half-fae is a kind of cool concept in my opinion. Genre: Paranormal romance)

4. A boy/girl is born with an unusual “gift”. He/she knows whenever somebody dies and how it happened. She can also read the dead’s memories to know what they did, but she can’t block any of the memories once she starts ‘listening’. One day she meets a person who claims to be able to help her block the knowledge of the deaths, but whose side is he really on?

( This one can be sci-fi if desired and you can change the gift around. If the protagonist agrees and it works, but then people start dying, it can be mystery, too. Also, it can be a ghost story about a person who has the gift, but can also see ghosts and, using her knowledge of the dead, helps them move on. Or, if you want it to go in a “romance” direction she could have a relationship with her instructor. Genre: I’m not even going to try.)

Anyway, Based on comments on this post, I may or may not continue to give prompts. Good luck, Alice-marie, I hope you find your “true love” topic soon.