The Book..part two

Part two of "The Book"!

The wait under the bed was long and painful. I heard voices several times, but none rescued me from my place of waiting. So many of them needed me—but they didn’t know it. They went through the motions of their lives without as much as a second thought to the man who gave so much for them.
One day, a pair of shoes joined my company. They had been kicked off and settled under the bed. At last! Hope of retrieval! And yes, the warmth of the sunlight creeping in from the window was miraculous, and even more so when my pages were opened. But not only were they opened, they were read! The face of a bright young woman had found me when she collected her shoes from under the bed.
Her touch was gentle, her smile kind. She read the words from my pages, and understood them! She knew they had meaning and life in them. When she’d finished reading, she closed me but didn’t let go. She held my close to her heart, and I could feel its beating pulsate through me.
She prayed for me, that the very person who needed me would have me soon; that I would bring encouragement and hope to them. The very hope she had come to cherish when she was just a little girl. The hope of nations.
She searched through her bag until she found a notebook. She took the pen from the nightstand and began to write. She wrote a lovely little note, with references to sections of me that would help a lost person become found. It was wonderfully kind of her. She was helping them find the source of the hope they longed for.
And now, Lord, what wait I for? My hope is in thee.*
And she left. I was sad to see her go, but the note she taped to my front cover brought me courage that it was for the best I was left behind. Someone out there needed me, and it wasn’t her. She had a copy of me that was almost identical. And so I waited, in the drawer that is my home, for another to come along and pick me up.

*Psalm 39:7

Ultimate Frisbee

This was an assignment for writing 2. I was supposed to write it from my writing buddy Abbi's persepective, so here it goes!


The first thing I thought when the boys suggested we go outside to play ultimate Frisbee was, “No.”
The second thing that came to mind, when Mr. Burns said “Yeah, ok,” was “No way.”
Then, as we started to walk out the door and into the blinding sun and flippant breeze, my thought was, “Oh no.”
You see, I am not, shall we say, athletically inclined. At all. Any sport played with a ball or disc has my head spinning. I don’t understand them. There are all these rules you have to know, “boundaries,” and then they go and confuse me by splitting us into teams! Terrifying.
So, clutching my skirt, I walked out on the field. “I really don’t want to play,” I said. No one heard me, or if they did, they gave no indication of it. Drat.
So after blindly walking around the field for a few rounds, or whatever they are called, I went over to Emily, who happened to be doing the same as I.
“Let’s be lawn ornaments!” I said. She agreed.
And so we sat, pulling up grass, in the middle of the field. We were nearly trampled several times, but I liked to think I was still assisting my team in some way. I might trip the other team, or make them have to go around me! Genius.
Emily and I moved from being lawn gnomes to meditating frogs, and Mr. Burns told us to take our yoga outside the field. We didn’t.
Emily picked a piece of grass, held it between her thumbs, and blew—hard. And, her blowing created this ear-piercing screech so loud I could feel my ear drums shattering.
“Cool! I want to try!” Emily grinned, and picked me a piece of grass to use. I stuck it expertly between my thumbs, took a deep breath, and blew—hard. But alas, no screeching sound was heard, and I ended up sounding like a baby spitting out a mouthful of pureed carrots. Yuck.
I decided to try again, and Emily helped me to precisely place the grass between my thumbs. I was sure to get it this time! I was drawing my breath in and placing my lips in blowing position, when—
“Aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaahhh!” came the blood-curdling shriek from Emily. I fell over in fright.
“Alyssa!” Emily yelled. Alyssa! She had snuck up on us and poked Emily in the sides! Gasp. I was about to get the whistle blowing thing, too!
I tried again. And failed. Again. I tried a few more times, and failed a few more times. Sigh. One more time? Ok, here it goes…
“SKWEEEE-blllleeeee-SKEEEE-bleeehhhhh-WEEEEEE” I did it! “Emily, I got it!” I would do it again, proud of my new ability. Deep breath, and blow! “BLeyyyeeeeee.” Darn. Fail.
Needless to say, I gave up on the grass whistling. Moving on.
“Hey! You want to try the ‘field sobriety tests’ my drivers’ ed teacher showed us that let you know if a person is drunk?” she said.
Sure. I’m sober, I could do this, right?
First one.
“Standing on one foot, looking at the one in the air, count to 30 in real seconds.”
“1…2…3…4…” Hey, I wasn’t failing! Yeah! “12…13…14…” Falling… falling… foot down to save myself! Fail.
“You’re drunk,” Emily told me.
“No I’m not! I’m just… I have an inner ear problem, ok?” We did another three, and I passed those. Phew.
“Ok, now count backwards from 100 staring with odd numbers.”
I got this. “99…97…95…91…89…”
“You skipped 93. You’re drunk!” she teased. “What have you been drinking, mouthwash?”
“I’m not drinking mouthwash!” I said. I was about to elaborate, when a Frisbee flew right by our heads, and a guy was diving right by to catch it! We almost died. And so, after a good five seconds of screaming, we looked up. Everyone was staring at us.
“Moving along,” Emily said coolly. We floated off the field, both acting like the White Queen from Alice in Wonderland. Yeah, I know we’re cool.

The Book.. part one

I didn't like our journal assignment for this week in writing class... So I'm not doing it and am turning this in instead! To be continued... I already have the next two parts so let me know what you think!

I rolled of the presses, ink warm on my pages. After they’d all dried, machines bonded them together. They put a nice hard cover on me, to protect me, I think. I was proud of that cover. It was red and smooth, with my title in gold ink. It was a prestigious title, too, and I hoped I could go to someone who would love and cherish me. I was boxed together with others just like me, and shipped off somewhere.
Soon I felt myself being unpacked and placed into a drawer. I sat there for weeks and weeks, just waiting for someone to read me. I heard voices, music, and footsteps, but no one came to me. I stayed in the drawer.
Then one day, the drawer was opened and light flooded my once dark home. I was lifted out, not entirely gently, but taken out all the same. I watched as a pair of stressed brown eyes looked my cover over. They quickly put me back and shut the drawer. Why hadn’t they opened me? Didn’t they know of the wonderful message that was living atop my pages?
The same person opened the drawer later that day, late at night. He stared warily, and cautiously opened the front cover. I held my breath and waited for him to go on. But he slammed it shut again and threw it back in the drawer. He shoved the drawer, but it didn’t close all the way. It was left open just a crack, enough to let in some light. Dim light filled my drawer, and soon the light grew slowly brighter. Still very dim, but brighter than before. Soon a sliver of the moon was visible, and I rejoiced at the thought it brought forth: Praise ye Him, sun and moon: praise Him, all ye stars of light.*
Soon the moonlight reflected off of my gold lettering and cast a small spot of glow upon the ceiling. This captured the attention of the man, and he opened the drawer yet again. This time, as I stared into his empty eyes, he opened more than my front cover. He turned a few pages. He picked through great chunks frantically, looking for something. Stop flipping and look harder! Fill their faces with shame; that they may seek Thy name, O LORD.** It was right there.
His face gave away the shame he tried so hard to hide. Ask, and it shall be given you; seek, and ye shall find; knock, and it shall be opened unto you.*** He was seeking forgiveness, I knew it; but he was looking for it wrongly. He was looking for some act of righteousness he could perform as atonement.
For by grace are ye saved through faith; and that not of yourselves: it is the gift of God: not of works, lest any man should boast.**** But he didn’t see this. In his frustration, he threw me to the ground. The answers are here! Come, open me and look again! But he kicked me under the bed. I heard him weep, and it saddened me greatly.
I heard him leave, not bothering to return me to my home in the drawer. Good-bye, oh lost one. May you find your way into His great arms before you face eternity without Him. He, who created you, he loves you. Come home to Him.

*Psalm 148:3
**Psalm 83:16
***Matthew 7:7
****Ephesians 2:8-9

Meg

"Whatever you have to do to get through it, go ahead and do. Just don't stop. Finish the whole combination. This is the hardest thing you'll have to do today," said Meg.
The sweat collected on my furrowed brow. Stomach in. Pelvis striaght up. Hips square. Bottom held. Inner thigh wrapping. Chest lifted. Shoulders relaxed. Arms rotated. Good. My mind flew through its mental list of body placement. The salty drops on my forehead grew heavy and made their way down my swimming face.
"Scream if you have to! Just do it!" she hollered. Keep going. Get through it.
I tried not to tense my left hand, but discovered my white knuckled grip on the barre was much tighter than was necessary. I loosened it a bit, but my mind could not get over the searing pain in my right leg. It rond de jambed out extended straight to the side, in to retire at my knee, extended straight to the side, in to retire at my knee. Again. Keep going.
"Don't let that leg come below 90 degrees, ladies!" I cringed as I felt the drops roll off my chin and onto the ground. I kept circling the leg. Rotate out, wrap the inner thigh in, rotate out, wrap the inner thigh in.
"And last four," she called out. "Make them good." Breathe, I told myself. Breathe. The aching set in, and I could barely feel my standing leg, no way of knowing if it was turned out or not. Finish. The last painful rond de jamb en le aire closed to retire and it took all I had left (which wasn't very much) to bring it gracefully down to fifth position. Once there, I let it all go. I felt limp. Exausted. Jello-legged.
"Good."
Phew. We're done with that.
"Now do the other side."
*Sigh*

Writing is a Journey

Just a brief overview I wrote of my writing journey through the years.

Writing is a journey. From childhood and on, I have been writing.
I grew up writing stories of flying mermaids and gardens with magical golden roses, lost talking puppy dogs and wishing wells, princesses and magical stuffed animals. As a very young girl, I wrote “ripots” on varying things such as “mi birtdae” and “pocahonts”. I occasionally kept journals, but never for very long. I wrote newspapers for my family and sold them for a quarter each.
I still remember writing my first-ever real paragraph for a teacher that would actually grade it. I thought for a long time on a subject, and then carefully and thoughtfully typed out the words. I sent it to my older sister in college to proof-read, and used her corrections. I printed it out and stapled its two pages of double-spaced 12 pt. font, and tenderly placed it in my English 9 folder. I proudly read it aloud in class, rejoicing over the smoothness of the words flowing from one sentence to the next. I received full marks.
I once wrote a letter to a magazine I subscribed to. Every issue has letters from readers commenting on articles and suggesting themes for new ones. I recall opening that issue, and reading the letters. As I started to read one of them, I feared that someone had stolen my topic of discussion. There had been an interesting article on Houdini, and there had also been another article on “mediums” or “ghost whisperers”. The inspiration to write the letter had come from the memory of once reading in a book about Houdini that he and his wife had made a code to try and see if they could communicate with one another when one was dead and the other living.
I had relayed these thoughts regarding Houdini and his wife’s attempt to communicate in my letter. And so, as I read the very similar letter in the magazine, I realized it was the same type of comments as mine had been! I read on, becoming more and more shocked as I went. Had someone else beaten me to the punch? I couldn’t believe it! I was livid! And then, humbly, I came upon the closing. Sincerely, Emily P. Oh. J
Ah, the time I first decided for once and for all that I wanted to be a writer. That I wanted to create stories that took you on a journey you could hardly imagine without skillful assistants and that would whirl you around before dropping you safely back in your cozy living room. It was yet again fall, and school was upon us. In Mrs. Smith’s English 10 class, in fact, was where the fateful worksheet was handed out. The first secret of scintillating sentences, it said, is addition. We were given simple, run of the mile, blah and ho-hum sentences. We were told to transform them and transform them I did. From a simple four-word sentence Brandon captivated the class I wrote a five line masterpiece of marvels and tear-jerking sentiments that was completely grammatically correct.
And though I have searched my computer and folder, the paper is not to be found. Funny, isn’t it, how the important little things like that just disappear? I suppose that is how it was with Picasso’s childhood paintings, Bach’s first draft of his greatest symphony, and the elementary school book report of C.S. Lewis. But truly, it was this work of creativity and challenge that fueled within me the passion of an artist. I had long wondered what I would do with my life. Would I be a doctor, a photographer, a teacher, an actor? Or perhaps a performer on Broadway, a lawyer, a beautician, or even a Disney princess? All my life I had wondered, but now I knew for sure. No matter what other occupation might catch my fancy briefly, I would always be a writer.
And perhaps the biggest writing challenge I had faced yet. National novel writing month, or NaNoWriMo. I was being challenged to write a 50,000 word novel in the month of November. It was a daunting task, to say the least. It started optimistically, despite the fact that I was plot-less. I had but a singular thought in my mind: a wingless fairy named Graylin. And yet, somehow, I was able to scrape 50,213 words from it. 50,213 words regarding several supporting characters, a villain, a bitter and resentful side character, two magical trees, fairy dust, determination, death, failure, perseverance, and a very important dictionary. I wrote 11,000 words in one Saturday near the end, in determination to finish the goal in time. And I did.
Writing is a journey, and there is mine. From childhood “ripots” to elementary magazine letters being published, scintillating sentences, and a novel, thus flows my journey of the pen. And surely it is a journey that will continue on and someday take wing and fly.

The Thankful Tree

An assignment from my Writing 2 class. We were told to write about thankfullness.

Every year, the day after Halloween, my family hangs up our thankful tree. It is a simple tree, made from cut up grocery bags, but it is a family tradition.
The idea is to write down something you are thankful for on a colorful fall leaf made of cardstock, and tape it to the tree. The tree is taped to the door leading into our garage, in easy view of the whole family. After the tree is full of fall foliage, we tape the leaves to the door to look like they are falling from the tree, and make “piles” around the trunk.
When I was a little girl, my leaves were ornamented with names of my friends, pokemon cards, pens and pencils, a roof, snow, fun, mom, dad, and (of course) God. As I grew older, I would write “I am thankful for…” on the top part of the leaf and draw little pictures alongside the words. Soon I began to sign the leaf in the stems as well. At age 8 or 9, I would be the first one to tape my leaves to the tree, perhaps ten or twelve at a time.
As I was growing up, I was always afraid of growing up like my siblings. They, around age 11 or 12, declared they were “too old” for the thankful tree, and would only tape up two or three leaves all November long. I was horrified at the idea of being “too old” for the thankful tree. I made a promise to myself that I would never be “too old” for the thankful tree. At age 15, I have still kept that promise.
I recently looked back through the bags full of leaves my mom has kept from years past, and laughed at the memories. I was thankful for friends, Pokémon cards, pens and pencils, a roof, snow, fun, mom, dad, and (of course) God at age 6 in 2000. Four years later in 2004 at age 10, I was thankful for candy, candles, pizza, hot chocolate, sleep-overs, dance, trees and leaves, church, colors (especially yellow and baby blue), roller coaster tycoon, milk, parties, and (of course) God and Jesus. And now, at age 15 in the year 2009, I am thankful for dictionary.com, Owl City, Microsoft office word, music, homework (yes, homework), poodle skirts, nail polish, hair dye, my kitty, facebook, and (of course) the Father’s great and mighty love for us.
For things great and small, we are thankful. Having a tree to express these feelings every fall has helped me to remember just what they are.

Where I’m From

Just an asignment from my English class-- a poem filled out using the basic template of George Ella Lyons poem of the same title.

I am from twirly dresses, from Duplo and Pokémon.
I am from the backyard town Creekside Roxaboxen, (muddy after a rain, decorated with pieces of yarn, and the constant fear of the poison ivy that grew there every summer.)
I am from climbing the Willow tree; the backyard forest and creek that never failed to provide endless escapades tromping through chasing butterflies and eating sour gooseberries.

I am from the Claes Family Christmas and brunettes with brown eyes (not quite sure how that one worked out…), from Dale and Kathy, farmers and city folk.
I am from tightwads and those who love to eat.
From “Play your piano!” and “No you can’t play with friends until your math is done!”
I am from the God who is Mighty To Save, learning Bible verses with the help of a bear cub, a firefly, and a boy with 313 ½ freckles.

I’m from Orange City and Czechoslovakia, Crazy Crust Pizza and kolaches.
I’m from my father showing pigs at the O’Brian county fair in July, Iowa State Fair in August, and Clay county fair in September, the Monster Club that included Frankenstein, Dracula, and my mother, the bat.
I’m from the scrapbooks at Grandma’s house, filled to bursting with pictures, newspaper clippings, hand written notes, Christmas cards, and memories.
I am from those photographs locking forever in time those moments that tell my story and remind me of where I’m from.