Late Blog Entries - Week 12, Entry 2

'He'
Mid-30s
Grew up in a reservation town; Not the one the story is set in.
Father was a hunter, owned a bait shop.
Presently owns/works at a souvenir corner-store shop at a town at the base of a mountain. Lives above the store; Has a problem with the occasional bear sneaking into the trees in his backyard to eat from the garbage of the pizza place next door.
It is not a tasty pizza place, but it'll do.
Very introverted, keeps to himself. Doesn't talk a lot with his customers, except for the occasional direction or conversation about the weather.
Very..Loner-ish vibes.
Short, dark hair on a receeding hairline.
About six foot five. Very tall. Broad shoulders. Well-built, but aging.
Seeing the 'she' in the story; they do not live together.
No children, nor any desire to have any.
Has two older brothers; Sees them once every other year for Thanksgiving. They're moderately successful and wealthy, they get along distantly.
Community college education; associates in business. Good credit, so starting the store was not a problem.
He was a good student, modest grades, made no ripples.
Trades animal skins occasionally, though he himself does not hunt them. He fronts for those willing to sell them in the town, however; No where else wants to do business with them, as they're a bit of a crass bunch. He doesn't mind.
Significant events:
1) His eighth birthday, the first seizure.
2) His twenty second birthday; the last seizure.
3) The loss of his virginity at his 22nd to a one-night-stand. He didn't mind.
4)One significant girlfriend or two throughout college/high school. But, he was too..Boring for them, I suspect.
He enjoys beef jerky and turkey sandwiches, but eats a lot of salad and granola. A product of where he lives- A lot of younger people flock in and don't quite care for local cuisine. That's okay, too, he supposes.

Late Blog Entries - Week 12

Oops! Was having some trouble with blogger. So, here's entry 1:
I'm trying to aim for a sort of ..Surreal story, in which there's a rift driven between the two characters and their reality, their placement in the world. Old thoughts come back to haunt them, and they have to contemplate what is there and perhaps what isn't. The philosophical perspective/tone will probably branch off to lead the reader to it's own conclusion as to weather or not this is entirely accomplished, I pray.
It's still being written-written-and-re-written, so..! There's quite a way to go, yet.
I'd like to expect my reader to be able to analyze and articulate some of the symbolism within some little things within the story, like the setting or the placement, the isolation, the image of the elk itself, but I'm a really analytical reader, and thus tend to expect a lot of that from others as well, though I am well aware it's not always the case.

An Ideal Morning

I'd wake up at seven am to the wallpaper again, after a full night of sleep, feeling rested for once. It'd be warm, naturally, and the room would smell like- What? Soap, I guess. Maybe chlorine. Mint and - What else is it they use? Something. Something nice.
Maybe I'd wake up cool. I'd have a job to do. I'd work with them for once.
Better yet I'd be at the resort with Matt. God, wouldn't that be grand? Our first trip. We'd be up and awake early, have beignets- Fuck, yes, so many beignets! How do you spell that? I don't care. It'd be amazing and warm and my legs wouldn't hurt, and we'd go off to Hollywood Studios and I'd inexplicably know people and we'd ride all the rides and see all the things.
We'd go to Epcot and he'd have to drink Beverly- And I'd laugh at him because it tastes bad. We'd buy all sorts of candy and food, go to Mars- Hell, maybe I'd have a ring on my finger and two kids would be along with us laughing at him because, again, Beverly is awful. It'd be fun. Whimsical. And we'd have all sorts of pictures and memories and we'd be there until one in the morning- And we'd skip to the Magic Kingdom, and watch fireworks with small, sleepy people, and we'd all find a little belief in magic.
That sounds nice.

Another Call - Blog entry 2 week 10

"Miranda? Is that you?"
The other end of the phone held silence, static. The tension was thick as Candace Roberts turned the plastic, heavy, cord-connected phone in her hand, waiting for the answer. There was a noise- It sounded like someone swallowing, hard.
"Yes."
Her voice was clipped and harsh, a little ragged around the edges. Candace breathed out, and hissed,
"Where have you been? It's been months, no one's heard of you! You just skipped out, like that?" She waved her hand, invisible to the woman on the other side of the phone line, miles and miles away, as she whispered in the dark, so as not to wake her sleeping husband and children. Candace's husband would have frowned upon this secretization, this phone call, even. He may even have to have words with her- Words that involved palms and bruises, occasionally fists. But- He wasn't awake now. It was alright.
Miranda shuffled, miles away in the plastic phonebooth on a dingy corner, the streetlamp flickering. She kept putting quarters in, though she hardly had enough words in her to fill the fifteen minute time slot. She exhaled and the plumes of breath rose in the air, like warning signals. She shook her head and replied, tasting grit against her back teeth.
"I- I had ta go, Candance. They were findin' me, you know? They kept callin- And callin'. Shit, I can't stay there like that. I can't have them knowin'."
Candace ran a trembling hand through her hair, waves of relief washing over. Was that it? Was that all really it? Was that what had driven her away- Some phone calls?
"Some phone calls? Well- I mean, I'm sure they stopped now. Maybe they were mistaken-"
"He knew my mothers name, Candace!"
The voice exploded from the end of the phone, and Miranda trembled, the explosion of her scream echoing in her temples. Candace nearly dropped the plastic receptical, and whispered,
"Miranda, we checked- We did! There hasn't been anyone calling-"
"Hold on, Candace-"

Miranda turned the phone over, the busy signal beeping. She pressed a button- The call switched, and the man's voice whispered low across miles,
"Hello, Miranda."
She screamed, and fell against the glass in the booth. Thunder shook the world.

Miles and miles away, Candace's line went dead, and she stared at the phone, wondering what had happened.

Age Analyzer

The AgeAnalyzer thinks http://prince-of-a-thousand.blogspot.com/ is written by someone 51-65 years old.

Welllp. Nooot quite.
Contrastingly, it thought one of my roleplay blogs (which has an enormous amount of long text-based posts) was written by someone between 65 and 100 years old.

What is this.
What is my lifffeee.

Week Nine - Poem

Branches crowning skyline,
the skeleton hands grasping blue-eyed clouds,
standing beneath them on a grass penitentiary,
we walk, prisoners to the pine-air.
Bones scatter the dirt and debris of deer and elk,
the world a coyote's play-land and wandering,
while we skirt corners and run hard against the leaf-skins left behind.
We pause to the giant, lightning-struck oak and wait,
meandering eyes searching skyward,
we stand, in chains of blue and cloud-whisp.
They weep across our backs,
as we turn to wander home.

Late Week Nines - Part 3

Fifty things I'm proud of.

1. Opening my writing enough to be comfortable in it.
2. Attacking the sestina!
3. Surviving the divorce of my parents and not faltering into a false sense of depression or self entitlement from the endeavor.
4. Training my dog to hi-five me, even if it’s not accurate.
5. Saving and making it to Disneyland in 2011.
6. Being with Matt for four and a half years.
7. Shaving my head and growing it back to ¾ the previous length, at present.
8. My consistent GPA of 3.0+
9. I’ve written three short stories that are well enough to stand on their own.
10. I can cook.
11. Taking that life-drawing course, doing my best.
12. Learning more through the application of hard work and perseverance.
13. I have perhaps never read so many novels in my life at one sitting as I had in college, even in my own time, which is exciting.
14. Well, I do read a lot, so perhaps I have and perhaps this is a falsehood, but at least I’ve read new things.
15. Finding enough confidence in my ability to tackle/conquer what I had previously considered impossible.
16. Redefining impossible.
17. Who’s working on learning Spanish very, very slowly? This person!
18. Trying to plan a future. It’s a sketch but I’m working on it.
19. Being able to work with the inevitable and unforeseen. Things happen, keep moving.
20. Keeping moving even when I feel like the sky is falling.
21. I make a mean apple pie.
22. Alternatively, I make an amazing grilled cheese.
23. I can draw a person in five minutes, proportionally.
24. I have not succumbed to any personal illness of defeat.
25. I know when I can or cannot do things; But I press myself anyway. Some things are important.
26. I finally watched Psycho, among a whole host of other films that were on my to-do list.
27. My to-do list is getting shorter by the day, this is nice.
28. I’m not too bad at writing things, and for this I’m at least a little proud, and a little egotistical.
29. I don’t feel too bad about being prideful.
30. I don’t boast, however. One has to be humble.
31. I have opened my mind and read more ‘classic’ works of literature. It’s been interesting. A little stale in some areas, but interesting.
32. I have helped some of my dear friends through hard times. I am proud to be called their friends.
33. I have made new friends in areas into which I would not have previously ventured, and they are all incredibly dear to me.
34. I wrote some pretty nice poems. That was fun.
35. I was able to assist my mum over the summer in a variety of house projects.
36. I can overcome my fears, demons, or worries through discussion and writing, more-so than through hiding them away.
37. I’m in college; I can conquer the world, right?
38. Okay, not so much, but I’ve newfound confidence in myself nonetheless.
39. I have worked hard steadily all the time I’ve been here.
40. I’ve been to a couple of conventions in costume/character and they’ve each been a success!
41. I have better determined my political stance through my own research and learnings.
42. I do not need to be influenced by any one person or persons to make my own opinions, and to make them known.
43. I know that, when I see something I do not agree with, I can say so.
44. I have a voice of conviction, and I can use it.
45. I was in a small movie, and it was tons of fun.
46. I am, and will be, going places.
47. I have nearly completed this list, and have 50 things to be proud of.
48. I can see things from the points of views of others, and respect their knowledge and experience while comparing it to my own.
49. Furthermore, I understand and can discuss the importance in being able to do so.
50. I am happy, and there is no reason to feel otherwise.
51. My darling boyfriend, for all the work he has done, and the wonderful, amazing production he directed this past weekend.

Week Nine - Follow that Cab Reply

It was thoroughly enjoyable. I could see the consternation and frustration on the authors face as he tried to follow, to track, to trace the lost things, and his wife, exasperated, explaining. The short, descriptive sentences and comparisons blossomed it more as a piece, a story to follow, than just a 'human interest' bit. There were things to follow, to be done, a daily routine, not just a scoop-and-grab-from-the-heroes bit with some side commentary.
There's no back-story, I guess, it just is as it happens and as it was thought. The first person, quaint nature of the narrator is humbling and honest- 'not for the first time' admits his faint pride in being able to accomplish things, a bias which would not show through in a mere 'interest' story.

What the Hell are Sandwich Bones? A clarification.

Okay, so, when you're six, grilled cheese sandwiches are the most delicious things on earth. (They still are, but that's another topic.)
But. For whatever reason, when you're six, eating the crust on any sandwich is like trading a precious level 81 charizard on Pokemon Red for a freaking level two magikarp: It is not DONE!

Unless you have a super creative dad, who cuts off the crust from your grilled cheese, informs you that it is the best part of a sandwich (which is an absolute fact, if you've cooked it correctly and make sure the crusts are all buttery and crispy), and calls them 'sandwich bones.'
It was never a bother to make more of them, since he usually just ate the sandwich bits when we were overzealous about the sandwich bone aspects, but it was just one of those little, weird things that stuck.

...I think I asked him to make me a grilled cheese for lunch last summer, and he still cut off the crusts.
They were, of course, super delicious.

One of my Poems

A Sestina – Autumnal Regrets


Her forest littered with ghosts of leaves,
having no way to see or know
the pathways that, in sight, may
lead the wanderings from Spring to Fall,
she follows the ghostlines of dust-mote-beams of light
waiting for the light to hit her skin, and call forth the sun.

Blinded by the obscuring clouds who cover the sun,
she is aimless in the way she's taken her leave,
her steps resonate no noise, being light.
She stops to listen. No,
No noise of people, no sound for her fall,
and she struggles to stand, waiting for what may.

What, she wonders in half-murmer, may
follow the noise of a song unsung,
may carry the weight of those who fall,
may paint the trails of those who leave
no footstep or trace behind? Who is to know
what lies in the dark without a light?

"No, not a noise nor sound nor trill nor shadow nor ghost to light-
not a creature nor foul nor beast nor birdsong to carry! May
those who hear things as such in the forest know
what damns them as they step unheeded, no song
to carry the passage of those who leave!"
Ever-weep those ghosts who carry the fall.

And try as she might to outrun these spirits, she should fall
into piles of dust and worn time by the aching, dying grass, no light
to penetrate these perpetrated glooms, ghosts of trees among their own discarded leaves
with no reminder but faded color to call back to their time in May.
Body calloused and wracked with tremors of the touch of the son
of the winter, the herald of the dying-times, she can do nothing but know-

Know that the inevitable rebirth will wait until she is frozen, know
that for every trembling step she takes deeper into the fall
that warmth will only reach by the guiding hands of the Sun,
that not all that burns will bring a peaceful light,
that though her song will echo, there is no promise that they may
find any resonation among those that would cherish her, and leave.

To know these things, she carries the light of May,
waiting for the leave of the Autumn and the fall
of an unspoken echo, resounding her song.

I cannot copy poem styles about food without getting hungry

I praise the sandwich bones for my father,

who leaned over the pan and inhaled the smoke
who taught slowly how to smell and feel

when something was ready, prepared
open for devouring, open for the teeth

to rend and tear and grind and devour
and to wash away with the cleansing and cold white
I praise the sandwich bones
because I see them sitting there and growing cold
separate and strange. Only ours.

The only way to make a clean plate
to wipe the world clean

I praise and loathe that cheese soup, the rum milk
the christmas nog and noise and voices through the kitchen
the hallow memories beset by snow and paper wrappers
by early morning and footprints in the white on the porch
by bells at dark midnight while we count stars in snowdrifs
I wonder where childhood took these things.

I praise the noise and bones of food and thought,
and spread them on the plate before me,

the white bleached and brown speckle crumbs
the cinnamon milk and then the cheese thick and spoon plastic
all over the kitchen
whispering that we were happy, right
that we were wide awake and waiting on edge
and the smells follow me
so, I linger and inhale

It is a childhood we will never have again,
the sandwich bones and warm kitchen,
as we sat on the edge of our chairs and counted
snowflakes and stars in flurry and wonder.

Sometimes I want to ask if he remembers these little things,
but I stay quiet;
Everything else had been forgotten-
We wipe the plates clean.

Week Eight 3

Er, honestly? Truthfully? I've been sticking too it about as much as a piece of paper sticks to a wall on it's own. It's been incredibly sporadic, and my motivation has been dwindlingly low all semester, and I'm not sure why. I am rather disappointed with myself, but I cannot truthfully find anything screaming at me to write recently- When I do, it feels more like work than something to enjoy, and it's like lying on a bed of nails some afternoons.
When I do want to write though, it's amazing- But that's been so little lately that the idea of forcing myself to sit down and work on things is just stressful. Sometimes a free-write helps, but it feels so damn constraining otherwise that every single little noise or distraction is like an absolute explosion in terms of distraction.

Blog Posts for Week Eight

1.Ruth Stone’s Winter I found exceptionally gorgeous and well written. The imagery was particularly evocative of a cold, particularly pressing series of memories. It was very tangible, real, human, and I think I appreciated it more than the others for the images it presented and the voice that carried it throughout. The theme is especially haunting, one of great loss and reflection on such, of remembering someone lost to one long ago.

I need to know,
In simple quiet terms from you,
From your voice and mouth and lips,
From your eyes when they are not so red,
Or perhaps from when you are not so tired as I am,
That I have not failed you.

There is a boulder of fear pressing between my shoulder blades
And every vertebrae aches with gravel and rock prying
Cracking them open into lean crevices while I wait knowing
That a strangers voice resounded louder than my own,
When I had sought to comfort, to love you so.
There is a fear there like animal hides on a long sharp fence
Fetid in hot summer and cold winters frozen
Sharp and musky, it bleeds into my skin,
The pigment tattoo ink echoing a lifetime of sorrys.

I cannot ask you now
Not tonight when the wounds are still fresh
When the muscle is still exposed
When the puss thickens still
I have to wait, wait, wait
Wait
For you to rise, my rock, from the sea-
Whatever tides come towards me I can bear them for the undertow
Just waiting quietly for the words to wash over
Fate to be sealed.
You have not spoken yet but I see your shoulders
Slumped and strange and heavy with burdens I don’t know how to approach
How to lift?
Do I treat them as ghosts walking down passageways?
Do I repell them as poltergeists?
Do I call them like lost loved ones so dear to me
Or do I let you carry them and gain strength?
I am afraid that when I step away you will not let me step back
I am afraid, that when I let you know even-eyed and quiet
That this is okay, this happens, we are all inevitably, fatefully and wretchedly human-
That you will shake your head
And prove me wrong.

I feel like I can hi-five the cosmos!

Honestly, though, I'm in such a spectacularly absurdly good mood that I had to share just about everywhere.
Posting some pretty awesome links for the week while I listen to stuff and sculpt this skeleton!
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=3cq3l0kVMhI&feature=BFa&list=AVGxdCwVVULXdFtyvm8lQV38t6J2AewVJK&lf=list_related
Song I can't stop listening too!

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ZCNYdHZpPH4
Disney Imagineers are awesome!
And that whole channel has some really neat stuff, yep. Go look at the universal halloween houses! Spookyfun!

http://www.flickr.com/photos/nightmaresfearfactory/
And a whole gallery of people being horrified by something in a haunted house. It's kind've hysterical.

RIGHT! Actual writing, actual work..Onwards!
Keep moving forward!

2+3 Week 6

#2
a. My favorite childhood toy was . . .
A tie between a Mickey Mouse doll and a Big Bird puppet!
b. My favorite childhood game was . . .
"See if I can convince dad to read me this story even though it's scary and I won't sleep" or "Hide the books! HIDE THE BOOKS IT IS PAST BEDTIME!"
Alternatively, I loved hide and seek and a game my sister and I made up called "pound puppies" though I hardly remember the rules.
c. The best movie I ever saw as a kid was . . .
Monty Python's Holy Grail or the Princess Bride, or Anastasia, or Hunchback of Notre Dame, or The Little Mermaid. I was eclectic, but I think TLM may have been tops!
I named a cat Dinglehopper.

...I was not permitted to name pets after that.
d. I don’t do it much but I enjoy . . .
Sleeping in or writing drabbles or thinking of fanfic ideas, which is so nerdy. Haha!
e. If I could lighten up a little, I’d let myself . . .
Publish a lot more of my art or written work online, or do somethings outside of the box or outside my comfort zone.
f. If it weren’t too late, I’d . . .
Double major in Art/Illustration. :x
g. My favorite musical instrument is . . .
Larmonica! (..My friend Lar played the harmonica for a tiny while. It was fun. Deal with it.)
h. The amount of money I spend on treating myself to entertainment each month is . . .
About 20-30$ a month, if at all. I'm really stingy with myself and get a little more anxious over money than I probably should. Or shouldn't. I don't know.
i. If I weren’t so stingy with my artistic self, I’d buy him/her . . .
The Rapunzel doll from Disneyland with Pascal on her arm and the freckles that I really, really wanted. D: Kicking myself!
j. Taking time out for myself is . . .
Difficult to organize, but far too easy to really do sometimes. Huh.

#3
a. I am afraid that if I start dreaming . . .
I'll lose myself to all the wonderful ideas and daydreams and not be able to keep myself essentially grounded, and thus, set myself up for crushing disappointment, again.
b. I secretly enjoy reading . . .
Smut. What? We're being completely honest, and honestly? I think smut can be pretty fun. Or hysterical. Or just god-awful. It's a gambit of nonsense, and it amuses me.
c. If I had had a perfect childhood I’d have grown up to be . . .
A terribly, terribly boring person or something. I'd hardly have half the friends I do now or be the person I am, and I don't know if I'd like myself at all!
Alternatively, maybe I'd be an astronaut.. But I don't think I'd be a very happy one.
d. If it didn’t sound so crazy, I’d write or make a . . .
A lot of alarming stories and art, I'm sure, haha! I reign my muse in a lot more than I'd like too sometime, particularly when I'm in a bad mood. There are, naturally, some thoughts I don't vocalize- Because, you know, you just /don't/.
e. My parents think artists are . . .
My mother finds them very similar to herself and very relatable. She likes my art, though she makes fun of me occasionally, and I don't think my father much cares either way. It makes him smile sometimes, though, but I've never heard him talk about it without prompting. Once in a while he compliments me in front of his friends or aquantices and that's just.. Amazing. It's like finding a golden ring in a room full of bottlecaps.
f. My God thinks artists are . . .
Er- Historically, He didn't care for them much, with the banning of iconography and all, and though I hardly think I can speak for a being of such..God..liness, because it's a little unnerving to do so in any context, I suppose he'd be... Pleased.
I'd hope.
g. What makes me feel weird about this creative writing class is . . .
Exposing myself and my thoughts. Oh look, everything's out here! And everyone knows what a strange person I am. And my, aren't I certainly strange indeed. It exposes my (now poorly) concealed paranoia and worry and all these sides to myself I don't really tend to exhibit except in words.
h. Learning to trust myself is probably . . .
A good idea.
i. My most cheer-me-up music is . . .
Mary Poppins, the Musical: Anything Can Happen.
j. My favorite way to dress is . . .
Honestly? I love, love costuming and cosplaying, and dresses and skirts!

Week Six, Entry 1 - Spontanious Erruptions!

a. List five hobbies that sound fun.
Jumproping, muffin making, hula dancing, balloon folding, fiddley-deeing!

(Commentary: Wh-..What. The first few I understand, but I wrote 'balloon folding!' and..Does that mean balloon animals? What is going on. I think I had too much soda.)


b. List five classes that sound fun.
1. Introduction to upholstery
2. Creative Writing: Horror Edition
3. Pastries!
4. Animation
5. Fashion design.

(Commentary: ...Why did I write about upholstery? I shouldn't be allowed to write streams of consciousness. That class sounds horrifying. I'd prefer stuffed animal making or something.)

c. List five things you personally would never do that sound fun.
1. Build a carousel
2. Bungee Jump
3. Model nude.
4. Roof jumping.
5. Competitive Roller Derby Deathmatch!

(Commentary: I was reading about Disneyland and how Walt wanted hand-carved-and-painted carousel horses. And I really do love carousels! They're so neat!)

d. List five things you used to enjoy doing.

1. Swimming
2. Walking
3. Staying up until four am talking.
4. Playing tag. Aw. :c
5. Smelling different types of teas.

(Commentary: ...I'm/was really weird. No one is surprised.)

e. List five silly things you would like to try once.
1. Bronycon with full cosplay.
2. Clowning!
3. Spontaneous musical performances!
4. Facepainting
5. Charicature studies for crowds of people!

(Commentary: Should probably say "things I'd rather enjoy doing at some point" rather than "silly things..")

Now, I'm not sure how everyone else approaches writing...

But this looks about as accurate a description as any I can give for how I do so:

Here, have some music:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=7trpC65AmYY

Just.. A reminder, I suppose.
Whenever I feel shitty or tired or upset or frustrated or feel like I'm not getting anywhere, there's this.
And then I feel like there's something out there for me. And I'll find it.
(Skip to 0:45 if you haven't seen Princess and the Frog, or just watch it the whole way through.
I'm a bit of a Disney nut, so..Bear with me.)

Blog Entry 2 Week 5 - @abigaillawrence

Hey there, reading your character Bio. Hope you don't mind some notes, eh?
-First was struck about the 'comic book thing'. It occurs to be I probably know Brian's girlfriend if she's going to comic things. This is interesting.
-I love the phrase 'nuclear family'. Not sure why, it always seemed like an eerie good fit for people. Also: Neon green. Don't mind me, I think in colors.
-The children's theater; The coterie?
-Archibald is the best cat name.
-Oh, jeeze, I'm pretty sure I know Brian and Molly. These are my people. Or they would have been.
-I sort've need to know what happened at Halloween and how it affected him. I'm horribly curious.

Blog Entry 3 Week 5 - Trees

The trees are a crown on the skyline. Skeletons standing. We walk like prisoners do and listen, the leaves are all underfoot, and the dirt is on our shoes. We skirt corners of cliffs and hazard over rocks and bones in the dirt. Sometimes by bones are chewtoys, left by Coyote-theifs. The woods say nothing and we pass the tree that had been lightning-struck more than once as we go around. Clouds rumble, it starts to rain. We return home.

Blog Entry 3 Week 5

Were I to move to a foreign country, I suspect I'd be able to integrate, or try to do so as much as possible, without offending my host country. I know what I am and am not privileged to accept, and I would prefer to learn the boundary lines of acceptable cultural appropriation before I attempted to take anything into it's own stride. I don't think I could stand to be the obnoxious American who was trying to be just like..Everyone else. I don't know; I'd share I suspect some of my own heritage insomuch as I tried to revel in theirs.
It's an odd question to ponder since, frankly, it seems like a very remote possibility, but if I had to /move/ there, to /live/ there, I'd try to adapt as best I could in regard to my own moral beliefs and political views. Naturally, I won't get along well in plenty of places, I'm sure, but if that means retaining some of my own sense of self preservation and being I suspect it'd be a far cry nicer than dropping what I believe is right for another person, even if that 'person' is a country.

Having some trouble-

I think I may have upset some guy outside of town. He was walking around talking to himself and I bumped into him, and he got a little irritaH͓͎̎̄e̙̗ͪ̽ͬ ̡͓͍̐ͨ̊̈͊̅w̢̡̤̳̮̣̦ͦ̌ͮ̚ͅh̵͍̫͍̩̲̬̣̊͐ͅo̘̺̎̾ͩ͗̍͢ ̵̺̜͌ͥ́r̶̥̈̉̓ư̟͚̝͇͉̬̖ͮ̅̈̚n̏̾̈ͪ̽̊̊̅҉̵̭̫̞͖͘s͎̙̳̼̗͔ͯͦ ͈͎̺̈ͤ̀r͍̙̪̗͇̞̍͗̑ͪͥ̑͒́͞ͅṵ̸͔ͤ̔ͩͬ̂ͥi̶̙̙̖͍̹ͦ̽n̠̠͚ͩ̀̀͢s̡̻̩͙̪͉͔͍̋͟ ͈̦̥͆
͎̩̟̱͇͕̓ͮͮw̵̧͓ͤ͂͑͑̆͛̐h̸̶͕̱̘̩̜̫̮ͣ̅̒ͬ̑̚͜ͅo̡̰̫̥̪̙̰̳ͯ͊̌ ̩̰ͣ̾ͪ̔̕b̸̪̩̱̈́̃̏͐̕r̛̒̾̔̔҉̹̱̠̟̯̰u̥͙͖͙̬̺͈̅͂ͩͮ̂͊ͪͦ͝ͅi̙̩̿͋s̢̡̰͇̭͚̱̤̤͍̎̓ͬ̍͟e̴̷̼͈͈͎̪̒͠s̸̪͆̂̈́̉ͨ̃̒ͬͨ̀ ̛͑͂̓ͮ͐̀̔҉̹̘͇͎̖͙͙̗͝b͓̖͚̝̳̙̬̻̿̽́l͖͖̩͚͊̕͞ë̢̡̢̯̣̤̱̼̱̈́ͪ̂̽e̳͎͚̜̫ͩ͂̂d̛̦͖̖͇̤̠͖̣͔ͯͬ͛̾͛s̘̠͈̙̦̖̦̑̔̇̍͗ͥ̕͠ ̮͕͕͔͌̿͌͝
̸̛̼̞͓̰̂ͣͪ̆ͦ̿̑̋h̨̔͆̇͂͐ͫͥ̚҉̣̪̤̖̬͎͖͟ͅe̲̭͕̝̤̪̤̝̥ͯ͆̀̅̈́̓ͭ̏͞ ̷͈͇̖̟̤̭̭̺ͣ̋w̷̘̝͇͚͚͒̍͗͒̔̆͊̀͢ḧ̡̼͕̮̝̠̣̕oͧ̿ͤ͏̹̹̘͇̻̤͚͕ ̙̯̳̒̓ͦ̐sͫ͗ͫͦ̚҉̦̝̤̭̖ͅc̱̜̺̫͒̈ͭ̋ͤ̽́r̺̩̣̐̈́ͤ̎̄͊̄͠e̷̖̼̖̳̥̝͍ͮ̐ͨ͑̊̃͟ą̸̞̗̒͂m̷̟̱͖̲͚ͪ̀̉͆ͨ͑ͨ͞s̴̡͕̳̮͉̔͌ͥ̌ͮͬ̎̐̔́ ̢̧̥̭̄̎̂̈̅͝l̘̮̯̮̟̿̈̌̔͂͜ȯ͇̪̺̞͚̥͗́͑̎̐ͩ͒͞s̶̺̦̮ͧ͒e̴̗̥͊̒͢͡sͤ̈́̔ͫ͏̗̤̤̲͙ ̎̽ͮ̽͝͏̴̳̱̘͎̠
͍͕̩̬̼̙̳ͧ̈ͧͤ̏͊̐h̸̷̞̭̮̥͌̈́́ͮe̟̭̠̣͋ͭ̔̏͘ͅ ̶̺͚̬̦̤̝͕͆ͮ̾̔̓́̄ͩ̃̀w̗̄͂͌́ͅh̨͙̼͎͂̏̂̀͌̒͞ͅo̢̗̳ͯ̽̿͋̏ͤ ̰̆ͦ̕l͕͍̳̰͔͈ͯ̎ͣͮ̿͜i̤͈̮̯̦̗ͩͥ͒͂ṡ̙̺͇̝̲͑͂̿̒ͤț̲̟͍̝͚̓̔̑͞ȩͮ̐̏̇̃͐͐̊҉̺̣͔n̰̭ͤ̽̐͂́̏s̶̢̻̭͙̤̟̻͈̾ͤͥ̉ ̫̣̠͍̥̹̠͚̞͗̉̊̍ͯ̒
̢͎͇̺̬̱͌ͤ̿ͫ ̩̘̳̤̮̅ͧ͆̈́͆ͅͅ
̨͓͍̪̗̰̪̻͕̥ͥ͛̎̊̓͛̑ŵ̢̠͎̔̊ͯ̇̀͠ͅå̤̟͓̻̬͓͔̐̋̉̑͠i͙̮͔͛́͟t̴̹͙͕̱͖̜̗̏̎ͯͮ̊͞s̷̢͙̭͎̟̳̞ͧ̿̅̌

Rambling counts as writing, right?

Oh, apple juice. I am too sleep deprived to be functioning on any level plane of thought beyond 'Look I am wearing socks and they make my feet look like inchworms, teehee!'.
Rambling counts as writing, right? I'm sure it does somewhere because I haven't been keeping up with my writing schedule as much as I'd like too and it's making me terribly bothered. I don't like being dishonest with myself- I thought I'd be doing better than this but things have gotten really busy.
I think I may edit the whole damn thing to become more of an 'x' amount of words a week thing.

So, I went through and followed everyone's blogs and now feel absurdly self-concious. My god, they know I'm here, and they know I roleplay Disney characters when I have free-time, and if they've looked into that they know I write some weird, long stuff about them, or maybe they know I got rejected from the Disney College Program, or that I drink too much tea and like old book illustrations.
..And for whatever reason, as alarming as this partially is, I'm not too bothered.
I like stories, I like how I approach means to tell them differently. I like tea, I like cartooning, I like art. Hell, I like drawing people and animals and princesses. I like finding ways to use stories and art to teach people things.

And I like knowing that somehow I feel sharper at 11 PM at night without or with too much sleep all at once than I do at 7 am in the morning just waking up and stumbling through the world.

...And now I've got to do my essay, and I've got to look out for my email from Ned, because I am so pumped for the Tangled Fic Exchange.

I have stories to tell, damnit, and I will tell them however I want too.

Fictional Biography

Miranda Wilkins, aged forty three, childless, unwed, has a strong fear of answering the phone. A man has been calling her for four months now and though she's said little of it, she had mentioned it to her friend, Candace Roberts, aged thirty nine and feeling it heavy on her shoulders. Candace married a man Miranda had desired back in school, but had never felt the courage to approach.
Candace had gone to college, Miranda had not. She did not feel cut out for that sort of thing, and had taken up a job checking files at a meat processing plant. It was good work, and though the men were a little harsher in their words than she cared for, they were at least honest men and hard working. They were the sort of men who managed to scrub off almost all of the blood from their hands before they went home. She noticed they tended to forget the little areas outside their wrists, because it looked like a bracelet from far away. She never said anything about it.
The man who had been calling her was getting on her nerves, edging her to paranoia and terror. She had installed a caller's identification machine to the phone, and did not answer when it was a number she did not know now, but sometimes it skipped that, or she forgot all her numbers, and answered anyway. The calls made he thoughts fuzzy, and she did not like being called honey. She did not have money to send the man, and she did not want to talk to him. She had told him so, but he continued on.
When Candace was told, she had worried that her friend was perhaps too alone in her house. She offered Miranda a job to babysit her youngest, but the boy did not like her very much, so she had refused.
Miranda was very much starting to worry the calls were getting closer, so she would lock her doors and shut the windows tight. Who knew who else he was calling?
One day he called at work, and asked for her boss. Then he asked for her coworkers.
She had hung up in a fit of tears. She didn't know this man, but he knew her.
He knew her far, far too well to find any solace in it.

The following week, Miranda left the meat processing factory, the town, and her home behind on a white bus headed to a hospital.
She did not return for a very long time. There were no phones there.

I'm eavesdropping.

"At least someone believes me.."
"Did anybody not believe you?"
"I haven't told anybody. I'm pretty upset about it. I went to work today.. but I don't want to talk about work. I was pretty upset."
"How many times has he called you?"
"About five times. How did I handle it?"
"Well, you said you got pretty upset. I think you got pretty upset, really worried.."
"Did you still talk to him?"
"No, I hung up. He kept calling me honey and asking for money. He called Earl too.. He called Jerry.."
"How did they react? Did they get quiet, and not tell anyone either?"
"Yeah.."

Word Association - Blog Week 2, Assignment 1

Noisy children brawling games
Word association exercise
---
The pit was dirty and dank, like most ravines tend to me in hallowed October evenings, overflowing with leaves and the junk casually dropped down by littering passerby, or people who wished to hide away secrets. Electronics and glass glittered against the natural debris, and the not so natural as footprints rained into the world like sudden storm clouds.
Fists were raised. There was no self conscious thought to the outside as voices, young and stark against the harsh winds rang through the trench. Molly shifted her weight, hands up in small fists, a bruise blossoming on her cheek. Andrea said if she could do this, if she were the David to their band, to take down the Goliath that was Courtney Wintermyre—Well… Andrea hadn’t explicitly said, but every knight won a maiden’s favor eventually, right? Even if they were both girls, a favor was a favor.
The dirt scuffed her shoes and her knees were scraped from running and falling- They’d wound up here fleeing. She was not proud of her sudden bolting from the confrontation, but they were here now and a circle had formed. It had been made official of officials, outside schoolyard constrictions and teachers gazes. Outside reassurance. Outside getting up again if she fell to hard.
She swallowed thick; this was the reality she had to prepare for. She watched as Courtney paraded her fists, leaves on her shoulders- She wouldn’t see them, for what giant notices their head in the clouds if they’ve been there all their lives?
The first punch flew and missed. Molly spun, arm aching from the effort, and stumbled to look back- She only saw Courtney for a split second, and that was all it took for to know it was over. Everything then turned into a swirl of peach and freckles, aimed directly at her nose, and her world held only the large, over-vocal crack, that resounded like a gunshot echoing the noise of a branch stepped on in the dark.

Andrea’s mother drove them home. The car smelled of old exhaust, dead cigarettes, and hamburger wrappers, and Molly had to concentrate out the windows to make out the blurs of colors and shapes going by. Everything spun and ached, but Andrea had rested her hand against hers along the way. Her heart hammered- She wasn’t sure if it was the mild concussion or her broken nose, or just the noise of an erratic heartbeat that wouldn’t leave her, but it let her smile all the same.
In the trench, leaves continued to fall across glass and wire. The dirt was scuffled and flecked with blood—But as the dirt carried some of Molly, she carried some of it along with her as well, down the long road home. She rode like a knight on horseback- Her maiden’s favor fluttering alongside her in the breeze.

Fifteen Minute Writing Exercise 1 - Untitled

15 minute exercise that went in a radically different direction.
I may flesh this out later.

Sharing some actual writing: Horehound and Innocence

We were asked to bring in some writing we were proud of, and I figured I'd cross-post it here.

Horehound and Innocence: Children Will Be Children
by Michelle Barbieri 2010

Writing Schedule

Well, I'm supposed to have a writing schedule drawn up for the next couple weeks of the semester. At least once a day, le-writing.
Since my Tues-Thurs are really full schedule-wise, there's less writing on those days. Hoping to get at least a two hours total in total a week. Bonus time when I finish homework, haha.
So, here goes:
Monday : 30 minutes, 3/10 minute sessions a day. This is a little lofty, but I don't have a damn thing to do Monday, so there we go.

Tuesday : 15 minutes, either between classes or after.

Wednesday : 15 minutes, same as Tuesday.

Thursday : 15 minutes, same as Wednesday.

Friday : 30 Minutes again!

Sat/Sunday : 45 minutes total. 3x15 minute sessions, or 15 3minute sessions, whatever.

I'll be documenting this with:
http://writeordie.com/
Ffff yesssss.
I'll take screenshots of each day of writing, then post the shot with whatever day's writing. I lied, probably not doing that.
This schedule will be starting Monday the 18th.
Yeaahhhhhh!
(I may get a head-start tonight, because my mom's visiting on Monday, but still. Rules are rules.)

Furthermore I'll be taking part in the Tangled Fanfiction Exchange starting the 22nd. That writing time will be documented, but not posted until the contest is over, because it's super-duper secret!

A Clamour of Bells - Blog Assignment 2+3

I have been told on more than one occasion my spirit is deemed generous. My empathy strikes like the noise of a bell, a gentle clamor that resounds echoing across the whole of my being, a sigh and song that resounds echoes and the sound of rain falling. My heart swings a pendulous hypnotists amulet-- it swayed across my eyes, lids heavy, drawing closed slowly, slowly, into a peaceful slumber--
And it swung faster with each and every heartbeat, blood rushing in my ears as I stared up against the chalkboard, dusty green meadows of the chaos of education and creation, tumbling to their feet to stand tall. It was a project, a communal gathering of truth and self to be displayed on 5x6 postcards...
And mine hung across, a banner fluttering in gentle-rain winds, revealing words that set my stomach whirling, like I'd spun in circles far too long, in a language different, strange, and foreign to my lips. Butterflies filled my stomach as I glanced over quietly, the many miles leftwards.
I had made the decision to place it out there-- And I would have to carry it now, like the weight of a child across a woman's back.
Ich liebe dich.
I looked over and wondered if they knew? Did they read the words drawn across the prairie winds of my heart? What impact did they bestow? Was it like lightning striking, glorious? Was it like a sunrise bringing light to a ceasefire? What hands had I extended outward now?
I swallowed, the lump thick in my throat-- I did not know, then, of the miles we would have to traverse...
And how many, many long stretches lie in between, of silence and quiet strangeness between friends. There were rough patches, awkward, bumbling arguments, long nights... But then, in that sobering, freeing moment?
I was not to know that the holes I had drawn us tumbling down into, from which we would have to mutually help one another, hand by hand by hand. I had no idea to me that this would cast us apart temporarily, like birds on a crossed breeze...
I had cast my banner into the unknown, bright white light of surrender, and waited for the messenger to bring back its olive branch.
We would find it, even if we struggled long in the process, across great seas of uncertainties. Even if we each had moved along thereafter, but for then, the words hung solid, rising like the peak of a mountain..
Ich liebe dich.

--
AN: I figured I'd do contrasting pieces of the same moment in time, a rather personal one, where once-upon-a-time I rather naively admitted some feelings I'd had for a friend that they hadn't felt back. The moment hands solid in memory as a sort've..Cataclyst to our still-friendship, one that could have well gone either way. This is, of course, only my point of view, and I've taken incredible poetic liscense too it: I remember it with a LOT more awkwardness, the noise of air conditioning, and the heat of the art-room-kiln in the background..
I, however, chose to leave those out to focus on the image of the card, the words, and emotion.
I'm thinking that, even if these don't fit the requirements for the assignment entirely, I'll positively keep these drafts. I like them, so, haha.

A Striking of Steel - Blog Assignment 2+3

I have been told on more than one occasion my spirit is deemed too giving. My empathy strikes like an iron, hot and metallic with a clang that resounds and rocks like thunderclaps to the soles and toes. My heart swings a heavy pendulum razor-sharp across a convicted convicts rope, waiting--
And it swung harder with each and every weighted beat, resounding, blood pounding in my ears as I stared up against the chalkboard, dusty green fields of rough writing and revelations. It was a project, a communal gathering of truth and self to be displayed on 5x6 postcards..And mine hung across, a banner brazen to the sky, revealing words that churned my stomach in a language heavy, strange, and foreign to my mouth. Weight hung in my stomach as I glanced over quietly, the many miles leftwards.
I had made the decision to place it out there-- And I would have to carry it over trenches and mountains now.
Ich liebe dich.
I looked over and wondered if they knew? Did they read the words etched across in fire and iron? What weight did they carry in the long run? What cross had I wrought to bear this confession?
I swallowed hard-- I did not know, then, of the mountains we would have traverse...
And how many, many long and treacherous miles lie in between.
I was not to know that the trenches we had dug then and there in mutual silence and know, we would claw from, and stand distant away from one another for a while, staring into those jagged scars of land and self.
I had cast my banner into the unknown, watching the cloth with those solid, lead words sprawled across the blazing white of surrender, and waited alone for the enemy to come.

A Creation Story* - Blog Assignment 1

*Or, if you don't believe in creationism, a radically unscientific approach to who I am as a writer, a person, and why I've set up this blog outside of the general class requirements saying I had to do so.
---
I'm fairly certain everything started with a fifth grade poetry unit and some dolphins, which, if you're like myself, you know are the worlds second most intelligent creatures, after mice. I absolutely do not intend to have this go back to any fifth grade poetry units, or dolphins anytime soon, so those among you who are Delfiniphobics are safe here.

As you can see, I'm a bit of an arse when I write about myself, and I like long words. I also enjoy poetry, innuendos, metaphors, terrible puns, wonderful puns, drawing, cartooning, writing terrible things happening to good people, and vice versa. I've been told my writing voice reflects on Margaret Atwood by a computer program, and Bradbury by someone I trust dearly, and 'Scary' by my own mother once in a while.
I believe in taking prompts like one would walk around a nest of angry hornets: Go any which way but straightforward. This presents a problem for some readers, and myself occasionally, as I'm stubborn, free-spirited, and apt to shrug my shoulders and ask why I cannot in fact write what I please.
My inner voice monologues, describes, and tackles things- We get along well, unless I'm trying to concentrate and my entire being wants to write about a comet hitting an island, at which point it becomes frustrating.

Outside of writing, I've got several varied interests. The 'about me' section to your left will link you to most of my little online hide-aways, and you'll probably notice I like pastel-colored-friendship-ponies, roleplaying through writing, Disney characters, science fiction, and cooking. I also have a fondness for superhero aprons, comic books, feminism, and combining the above three. I like to think of myself as a feminist and someone who works hard to understand people, but I'll be first to admit I do make mistakes occasionally. I work hard to try to understand, but I'm human, and miss some things occasionally.

This blog was started as something for class, and those assignments will be tagged as such ('blog assignment') and numbered in the title. I may also post some drabbles, flex my fingers across a keyboard occasionally, and write up some outside stuff- I haven't decided yet. I don't hesitate to mention that, frankly, whatever I write outside of class, and perhaps even inside of classes, will be absolutely uncensored, unless I choose not to post in, in which case you'd never know! Haha!
Sorry, my voice there switched to manic for a moment. I apologize; My stream of consciousness writings tend to have volatile moodshifts that can be alarming. Another warning.
The purpose (?) of this blog, is, I pray, to increase the..Futility? Narrative strength? Potency? (Heh.) Volume? Length? Shelf-life? Ability? Consistency? Output?
Any which one of those you pick, I suppose, would be the one this blog is geared for. Maybe it's geared for all of them. Maybe it's just going to be geared towards writing about giant squids.
Who knows? I haven't even started yet..!

---Michelle