Saturday, November 12, 2011


Bet THAT title caught your attention.
Sorry I haven't posted in so long, but time has this way of escaping me, the jerk.
There's a short story below - finally! Though it's only part of it, because (a) I'm not finished and (b) it's relatively long.
But before I get to that - THALIA! Congrats on winning the Derek Landy sentence contest thinga-ma-jig. So awesome...!! :)
... plus, did anyone know that if your reverse the t and l in tilted you get titled (which definitely does not describe a red-painted rickety wooden shed)?

And now...


The autumn day started out cold and dry, like the ones had been before it and the ones would be after it. Sarah Foxx woke up, realized it was Saturday, and went back to sleep. When she re-awoke an hour later, she headed down for breakfast. Her mother was up and cooking pancakes. Her father had gone to work, because he, unfortunately, had to work.
            Sarah helped her mother dry dishes, then finished up her homework. Afterwards she started a game of Scrabble with her mother, but they didn’t finish because her mom had to go change a load of laundry over and then became preoccupied with tidying up the laundry room. Remembering her father’s wishes, she went outside to rake leaves in their yard, wishing there were more kids who lived around her so she could play with someone on boring old Saturdays like this one. When she finished raking, she was cold and hungry, so she went inside and ate lunch, then took a nap on the couch.
            When she opened her eyes, the sunlight streaming into her living room looked significantly darker and redder than it had before. She went to the window, and saw the sun was about to set over the near-empty trees, turning the sky a hazy magenta. The grandfather clock next to the back door had its hands indicating six-fifteen. She wondered why her mom wasn’t preparing dinner and why her dad wasn’t home yet.
            She went to the kitchen, but her mom wasn’t there, so she checked the laundry room, but her mother was nowhere on the first floor. Sarah climbed the steps to the second floor, where she saw lights on in her parent’s room. Her mom was probably just getting ready for dinner after all her cleaning.
            Hopping back to the living room, she stared out the window to their back yard, which was, despite her valiant efforts earlier in the day, yet again covered in a thick layer of golden leaves. Feeling slightly annoyed at this bothersome habit of nature, Sarah pulled on her coat and gloves and picked up her rake. When her father got home, he was going to find a perfectly green lawn.
            She stepped onto the back porch that faced her yard, admiring the sights of the rubescent forest in the distance, the small rickety red-painted wooden shed that stood somewhat tilted over to the left, and the little brook to the right with a small stone bridge over it that led to a path through the forest. The deep orange sun and purple sky dotted with fluffy, drifting clouds framed it all nicely. She shivered as a cold blast of wind brought her back from her thoughts and she thumped down the steps and began to rake the leaves into little piles.
            About halfway through the yard – behind her lay neat little piles of leaves, exposing green grass, and ahead lay the thicket of yellow leaves she had yet to attack – Sarah heard a noise coming from the shed. She walked to it, wrapping her gloved hands around the rusted metal handle and yanking open the door. Something black and white shot past her, yipping. She turned to see the dog take off through her yard – through her orderly piles of leaves, to her dismay – and disappear over the small bridge, barking all the way.
            “How in the world-” she muttered, turning back to the shed, which was dark inside and heavy with the smell of dust and dirt. A small area free of dirt showed where the dog had been, but the doors were covered in spider webs. They hadn’t been opened until she had pulled them open just a moment before. A bright glint of light off something metal caught her eye. She leaned over and picked up a blue collar with a silver tag hanging from it. Etched in the tag was a name – “Bernard.”
            She sighed. A tag meant that someone owned the dog, which meant that she had to go and look in the forest for Bernard the Dog so it didn’t get lost or worse – eaten by whatever hungry animals came out at night in the forest.
            She jogged back across the yard, observing the one half of the yard that had once held the neat piles, though now it looked almost equally as messy as the second half. She groaned. Bernard unfortunately had lacked the decency to keep her yard neat, but at least he had not used it as a toilet. She ran over the bridge and arrived at the pathway into the woods. A small, thin sign hung from the foremost tree, shaking and trembling in the wind. “Darkened Thatch.” It was an odd name in the first place, even more so for such a friendly-looking forest, but as the sun was about to melt into the ground and bring about the rise of dusk, she felt vaguely wary about going in.
            But then she heard Bernard yapping from up ahead, and she sighed again and ran forward. She could see his tracks along the path, which was good. As long as he didn’t stray from the rough pathway, she could find him quickly and bring him home and try to find his owner.
            She passed a large boulder with a star etched on its side, a tree with roots tied like a bow in the ground near it, and a shallow stream with three rocks lending themselves as stepping stones so she could cross. She had encountered all of these before. But as she walked past a bush with big red berries and a ledge with green moss growing in distinct circles, she began to feel uneasy. She didn’t remember ever seeing these things before. She listened carefully for Bernard’s barking, but she didn’t hear him.
            Dusk had now set in, and night would be quickly falling. The sun was only specks of light shining through the trees now, and suddenly Sarah became afraid that it would go down before she left the forest.
            Feeling guilty about abandoning Bernard, she turned and started to run back the path. But it wasn’t long before she reached a V in the road. “What?” she gasped. In her haste she must not have noticed that the path she was walking had merged with another, and now she didn’t know which one to take.
            She tried looking ahead, but in the quickly dimming light she could hardly see, and Sarah started to feel scared.
            All of a sudden, she heard a crashing noise coming from the thick tangle of forest to her left. She jumped back in fear, imagining the worst – a wolf, a bear, a crazed axe-murderer – but out of the brush jumped a dog with a black and white coat covered in leaves and twigs. “Bernard!” she cried thankfully.
            “How do you know Bernard?” asked a curious voice.
            Sarah gasped and looked up. A short blonde boy had followed Bernard out of the trees and was now staring at her from underneath his messy bangs.
            She held up his nametag and he reached out and took it. “By golly!” he exclaimed. “Must’ve fallen off the poor brute. He got lost yesterday – he loves to run away, though he always comes back if he can find the way.” As the boy bent to reattach the collar, Sarah scrutinized him.
            He had tangled blonde hair that hung low over his eyes and ears. His nose was a little upturned and he had tiny freckles across his face, but she couldn’t tell what color his eyes were while he bent over. He wore old-fashioned clothes, like he belonged in a nineteenth-century storybook, not a twenty-first century world. His shirt was white linen, buttoned up in the front, with rather puffy sleeves and collar. His trousers were dark brown and tucked into his boots, which laced up in the front. A blue handkerchief poked out of his pocket, and after he brushed off his dog, he took this piece of cloth and wiped his hands.
            “What are you wearing?” she asked as he straightened.
            “Clothes,” he said simply. “And you?”
            “Clothes,” she replied, feeling a little confused. “I need to get home.”
            “Oh really?” With a worried expression, he looked up at the sky, which was now a dark gray a sprinkled with emerging stars. “I think I ought to be heading home too. Do you know the way back to yours?”
            “Um…” Sarah bit her lip. “Not really.”
            “I don’t either,” he said, “but I know someone who’ll be able to get you back. Follow me!”
            Hesitantly, she followed him, because she couldn’t see anything else to do. He led her faultlessly over the rough path in the dark, even though now it was so late that she could hardly make out her surroundings. The moon was waxing, and it was little more than a sliver of white. She could barely see the boy and his dog ahead of her, but he kept up a steady stream of chatter, though from now and then she tuned him out so she could look around – in vain, for she couldn’t see a thing but shadowy trees.
            “What’s your name?” Sarah asked him finally, interrupting a story about him and Bernard fishing in a leaky boat.
            “Well my real name is Fidgenwindle, but everyone just calls me Fidget!”
            Sarah almost laughed, but didn’t want to sound disrespectful. “Your name is Fidgenwindle?”  
            “Yes.” He sounded defensive. “What’s yours?”
            “That’s quite boring.”
            She thought about that. It was, at least compared to Fidgenwindle. “I suppose,” she agreed.

Thursday, October 6, 2011

Some Things in Life

Some Things in Life

Lost in a maze of puzzles and thoughts
Where something was but now is not
Faiths, beliefs are tested often
Love is lost and ideals soften

Colors blend and mix and change
but somehow views have stayed the same
We should see blue, and white, and red
but we just see black and white instead

Friendships always are evolving
just as the world keeps revolving
Happiness and love make up a life
just as much as turmoil and strife

Hearts can open and they can close
Melt like candy when offered a rose
Freeze like ice when they're ignored
and shatter like glass when love is no more

But we know that children will cry
it is inevitable that the elders will die
We can't predict when we'll feel pain
but at least some things in life will always remain


 I'm back! After months of nothingness I have finally come back I didn't mean to desert the blog (dessert the blog? yum!) but I've been admittedly busy.
That's not to say that this poem is about me. I mean, it's not. Obviously... well, anyway, I've definitely missed blogland and now forgive me if I post poem after poem because that's what I've had time for. Short stories will come later... The second part of Lessons with Angels perhaps...
And now without further ado...

Your Ruby Queen Returned

Your queen,
your ruby rose,
the very pinnacle of your existence
returned now
to you.
She comes back
from lands of woe
with new secrets you'll never know.
Inside the center of this rose
a tiny diamond grows and grows.

Monday, August 15, 2011

A Star

For all the stars out there, so they never go out.

            She looks at each one of us in turn, smiling her beautiful, crooked smile. “I love you guys,” she says sincerely. “I love you all.”
            A murmured chorus of “I love you too”s answers her. Her smile widens and she slips her hand into mine. “Thank you,” she says, maybe to me, but probably to everyone. And then it hurts too much for the rest of them, and they all take their turn to say their goodbyes, their final goodbyes, hug her one last time, kiss her on the forehead. After they all have left, I lean forward and kiss her, and it is so familiar that a tear starts falling from my eye. Nothing seemed familiar around her these days – the hospital walls, the hospital bed, the beeping machinery that never ceased. Yet she remained the same.
            I do not get up. I don’t want to leave.
            We hold hands for a long time, and it’s nice, to have her hand in mine for the last time. Finally, she takes it back, and it hits me that she is actually leaving. I watch her pale, drawn but still beautiful face.
            “I guess it’s time,” she says with a little shrug, and I wonder how she knows. But Catherine knows a lot of things other people don’t.
            “I love you,” I say, and those words that we have said so many times seem so much more important now. They are the last ones. I guess the last words are always more important. But it was true. I love her I love her I love her. I love all her smiles and her laughs and her tears and everything that she’s ever said. I love her. It is not the idea of her that I love, not her name, not her face, not the fact that she’s dying. I love her and have for a long time. I have seen into her cracks and she into mine. We both know it, but somehow it is still absolutely wonderful to say, to hear.
            “I love you too,” she says, and her smile is so full, so genuine. I want to kiss her again, but in these last minutes I have to talk. I need to hear her. “I always have, and I’ll never stop.”
            I smile, the tears coming fast down my face. She folds her hands in her lap and looks at me, her face so peaceful and calm and… happy. “Aren’t you scared?” I choke out.
            She nods her head. “Yes. But I’m ready.”
            I have asked her that so many times in the past months, and she has always shaken her head and said, “Not yet.” But now it’s finally come. Somehow she is totally calm. She is scared but ready.
            “You’re a hero,” I tell her, and she laughs. It’s amazing to hear her laugh. I just want to keep hearing it.
            “Aren’t we all?” she asks, grinning. “I just happen to be dying.”
            And she laughs, laughs in the face of death. I laugh with her, but the love has started to hurt. I just want her to live. But she can’t. So I am trying to love her so much before she dies. I am trying to fit years worth of love and laughter and words into a few minutes.
            She looks up at me from her pillows. “Keep being heroic, Alex.”
            “I’ll try,” I say, chuckling still through my tears.
            Her smile is brighter than I have ever seen it. But she asks me, “Can you please leave?”
            I look at her, in her eyes. And her eyes are knowing.
            Somehow she knows.
            “Of course,” I say, and take her hand one last time. “I’ll never forget you, Catherine.” And that is all I say, because everything has been said.
            As I walk out of the room, I turn to see her - the last time I ever will. She is smiling up at the ceiling. She says very clearly and with so much feeling, “This star will never go out.”
            And she closes her eyes and goes to sleep, still smiling.

            Minutes later, a doctor walks into her room and comes out.
            She died.
            I would cry, but I have finished crying. Catherine died with the people she loved. As she said once, she was one of the lucky ones. She could tell everyone she loved them. Some people had no time.
            But it still hurts. It hurts like having half of your heart ripped out. It is something you can’t ever forget.
            The doctors tell us she died smiling.
            We will never see her body again. She asked for that. She wanted to be remembered as a person, not a corpse. And that is what she is to me. She is a person, a fireball of love and laughter and dreams. She is a star, and she will never, ever go out.

Thursday, July 28, 2011

Too Late

 A very short story! Wow, I haven't written one in ages. (It's kind of a rough draft, and I would appreciate any helpful criticisms.) This story is set in a Skulduggery Pleasant-esque way.

Too Late

    The glass shattered under the impact of the heavy rock, and she began to kick at it to break it even more. Once the hole was large enough, Mirend dived through the window. She fell, dropping into a roll and jumping up. The house was dark as she walked through it, keeping her steps so soft that she couldn't hear them over her pounding heart. As she neared the closest door, she pulled a sword out of her coat, and it glinted fiercely in the sliver of moonshine that cut through the dim room.
    The door, old and battered, was open slightly. She pushed it inward and braced herself for an attack.
    Instead, a sob reached her ears. She ventured forward, holding the sword with both hands. As she stepped farther away from the door, it became clear that she was in a bedroom. A dresser, with two drawers half-open and spewing clothes, stood in the corner. Posters of little-known bands and fantasy movies were covering up most of the torn, flowered wallpaper. A bed, still imprinted with the shape of a body, was nestled against the far wall. The sheets were thrown back hastily. Next to it was an old, full-length mirror with a chip in the top right corner. Her gaze traveled down the mirror, and in the reflection she saw the very sight she had feared.
    A limp body was sprawled across the soft blue carpet, which had turned purple under him. His strawberry-blonde hair was matted with fresh, dark crimson blood that still glistened sickeningly.
    A pale, slender hand was laid on the dead boy's chest. The hand's owner was crying quietly, though she herself was covered in his blood. An empty syringe lay next to her leg. 
    Shivering as she cried, the girl looked up at Mirend with her black, soulless eyes. "I'm sorry."
    And the boy's own killer put her head down, and her sobs racked the dark night, while the moon watched with cool and calm certainty over the dead body, the vampire, and the rescuer whose rescue came just a little too late.

Friday, July 1, 2011

The Rainbow Masking a Storm

The Rainbow Masking a Storm

Her smiles and charm
and her eyes always shining
are hiding the tears
that hover beneath

The toss of her hair
and the sound of her laugh
are hiding the pain
that constantly aches

The endless bright glow
from her brilliant smile
is a rainbow masking a storm

The skip in her step
and the wink of her eye
are hiding the gloom
that darkens her soul

Her teases and jokes
and agreeable moods
are hiding the anger
that smolders inside

The endless bright glow
from her brilliant smile
is a rainbow masking a storm 

Friday, June 24, 2011

Poetry (thank God, finally)

OK. Well, I've had some trouble with poetry this past two weeks or so. That sounds lame, I know. "Oh, two weeks of writer's block? Whatever, you're overreacting." I don't know if I'm overreacting but I've never gone this long without writing a poem. I mean, I've gone this long without attempting to write a poem, but this time I have attempted and failed.

A few friends, on blogs and off blogs, have given me encouragement and advice and I have to thank all of them: Thank you!!

I know a few posts down that there are poems. None of them are new. They are all poems that I wrote a while ago. Recently I've been lacking in inspiration. But I've found some - lacking inspiration has become my inspiration.

But enough of my rambling. Here's what I wrote.
Oh, um, don't be confused by the blue giraffe reference. When I started to write this, I had just given up on a poem about a blue giraffe. It - it wasn't my idea...

The name is rather odd, but that's the first thing I wrote for the poem and I didn't want to change it.

Alright, now enough of my rambling.

A Poem that I can’t write

I can’t write this poem
I just know it won’t work
I wanted to write an abcb
Except nothing rhymes but ‘clerk’

This is the second verse
of a poem that doesn’t exist
and to find a rhyme with the word above
I had to look at a list

There’s a dictionary on the web
for people who can’t rhyme
It’s like a digital clock
for those who can’t tell time

Three verses already
yet I haven’t written a thing
If poetry brings happiness
what will these words bring?

Confusion, I daresay
for the people who came to read
a poem about a blue giraffe
but instead they found this creed

An ode, of a sort,
to all those poets out there
who have put down their pen
and simply ceased to care

When the ‘Grey Months’ creep along
some give up their words
yet to leave behind your poetry
is to speak but not be heard

So pick up your pen,
all you people like me,
who suffer from writer’s block
Let your words be free!

Well, it seems I wrote a poem.
I’ve been trying to all week.
All I needed was a little help –
a reminder, so to speak.

Some helpful hints from different people,
yet they all reached the same end
and now I know that when in need,
simply look to a friend.

Saturday, June 18, 2011

Lessons With Angels: Part 1

Lessons with Angels

The town where I live is full of mystery. People claim that amazing things happen in it. Me? Well, I was never a believer. Of course, I never believed a lot of things that I do now.
Last summer, my life took a sharp turn. In a lot of ways it was for the worse. In others, it may have been good - I'm not sure yet. But I do know that I will never be the same.
Some of you reading this may recognize what I’ve been through. I don’t really know. Am I the only person that this has ever happened to? Maybe. Is it likely? No.
I’m betting that quite a few people have had experiences like mine. They just aren’t willing to admit it.
If you have no clue what I’m talking about, have fun reading. Read it like it’s a great fiction story. To you, it is.
But if you’re one of those people who know what I’m talking about, well, I’d advise you to do what you’ve probably been doing for a while – keeping quiet about it. Because if there’s one thing I know, it’s that telling the truth can be dangerous.

A gentle tug on my sleeve pulled me out of my trance. I looked down to see my little sister, Gabrielle, her pale blue eyes wide. Her blonde hair fell in cascading ringlets down her back. One curl in back was tucked under the collar of her black velvet dress. I reached down and tugged it out. “Yes, Gabby?” I asked quietly.
“When are we going to get to leave?”
I looked at her, stricken by the way she barely even knew what we were here for. “Not until we bury Mommy.”
Her round face stared up at mine. “Why are we burying Mommy?” she asked, looking confused. “Mommy wouldn’t like to be buried. She doesn’t like dirt.”
I laughed, but it came out as half a sob. “Mommy doesn’t care anymore,” I said.
“But Mommy doesn’t like dirt, Lexi.”
The tears were back, hot in my eyes. I squeezed my eyelids down, trying to hold them in. “Gabby, none of that matters anymore.”
I knelt down, so my face was equal with my sister’s. “Mommy’s gone, Gabrielle.”
Gabby shook her head. “Mommy isn’t gone.”
I sighed. “Mommy died, honey. She crashed in the car. She’s dead, Gabby. She’s dead and she’s not coming back.” The tears started to roll down my face, burning wet tracks across my cheeks. Gabby put her arms around my shoulder and hugged me.
“Mommy is dead, Lexi,” she said quietly in my ear. “But she isn’t gone.”
I pulled back from her, stunned out of my tears. “What do you mean, Gabby?”
She looked away, and pointed to the priest. “I think he’s starting.” But I didn’t look at him. All I could do was stare at my sister… Mommy is dead, Lexi. But she isn’t gone.

After the funeral, the ride home was as silent as death – appropriate, considering our circumstances.
Uncle Benjamin drove us home. He’s our dad’s brother. Our dad stayed at the graveyard. He hadn’t cried yet, but he looked pale and shaky like he was about to bowl over any second.
Gabby still wouldn’t explain to me what she had meant. Maybe she was just being a weird little kid. But she had sounded so sure of herself when she’d said that… I glanced over at her, where she sat with a cheek resting on her fist, staring out at the cloudy sky. Her blue eyes looked like orbs, huge and shiny – like they could see everything. She had not cried during the funeral. She just stared off into the distance, looking fixated on a nearby tree. I don’t know why – maybe she didn’t want to believe Mom was actually dead.
Ben pulled up at our house – it loomed cold and unfriendly above us. We got out, and Gabby hurried over to my side. She took my hand and put the thumb of her other in her mouth. I sighed and we walked up the steps. Ben followed. As I took my key out of my pocket, my uncle put a hand on my shoulder. He looked worried. “Are you going to be okay, Lex?” he asked.
“Yeah,” I lied. “We’ll be fine.”
I walked in the door, letting Gabby go in before me, and closed it, leaving my anxious uncle on the doorstep. Gabby climbed into the window seat near the door to watch him go. A little figurine was on the sill in front of her.
“Watch out for the statue, Gabby,” I warned.
She looked down and saw it. She picked it up, turning it around in her chubby little fingers. Then she held it up for me to see. “Look, Lexi,” she said.
I looked at it. “Yeah, I know, we’ve had that forever.”
“No, look closer. It looks like Mommy.”
"Gabby, it's just a statue. It's not of Mommy."
"But it changed, Lexi. Mommy changed it to look like her so we would never forget."
That was it. I snatched the figurine from her fingers and slammed it back onto the sill. Then I took Gabby and lifted her from the seat. “Gabby, I don’t know what you’re trying to do. Are you trying to creep me out? Or are you just really confused? Mommy is dead, Gabby. She is never coming back.”

Thursday, June 16, 2011

The Forever Song

Hi, it's me Ruby! (no duh!)
This is a short poem I found recently, that I wrote in seventh grade when my friend and I did a report on blindness. I wrote a few poems about it, but this is really the only one that turned up readable. 

The Forever Song

Silent nights of darkness
coming into light.
Larks and cranes look up
and enter into flight.

Why is life so beautiful
if you can never see?
You rely on sounds of things,
your only eyes are me.

You’re brave, you know,
the way you hold your cane
as if it were a sword,
and not your lifelong bane.

I remember all those years ago,
when you and I were young.
You never got sad like me.
It’s a happy song you sung.

And today, within you,
it’s still there as ever.
You hum it in your throat.
You’ll sing that song forever.

Tuesday, June 14, 2011


Alzheimer's Disease (a type of dementia) is something a lot of elderly people have to deal with, and it affects their friends and family. Here's a poem I wrote. I've never personally experienced anyone with a bad case of Alzheimer's, but I know someone who has. It's a tough thing to go through, especially when you know the person well.

Memories escape you.
Words puzzle you.
Faces seem to fade.

You try to speak – words are empty.
You try to remember – nothing comes.
You try to sleep – darkness haunts you.

What’s in a name?
Everything, then.
But nothing now.

What’s in the darkness?
Your future.

When people come and go, you try.
Really try.
But you don’t recognize a single one.
Even the one who said she came yesterday.


Yesterday is gone. Today is going. Tomorrow is your only hope.

Monday, June 13, 2011

House of Reflections

Here's a story I wrote... well, I wrote it a while ago. I'm not so sure when. It borders on the fantasy-like. It's really strange. I was planning on following it up with another short story, but I don't know how to start the second one. Here it is:

The House of Reflections

The bright eyes peered out of the closet, staring at Sarah as she stared back. She’d known it was in there. She’d known for a few weeks. What she didn’t know was what it wanted. It might be there for the same reason that its brother had come a month or so before. Maybe it wanted something. Maybe it just wanted to watch.

Whatever it wanted, it was there. It wasn’t going away, and it wasn’t going to come out any time soon without Sarah’s help.

She sighed and got up from the bed. The closet door slammed shut. Sarah wasn’t heading towards the closet, though. She went to her dresser, and opened the top drawer. She drew out the item on the far left, where she always left it, and began to unwrap the soft square of silk that surrounded it. When she had, she placed it on the floor in front of the closet and drew back.

Her closet door did not open. The thin silver spoon still lay on the floor where she had put it. Nothing moved, except the curtains as a warm and quiet breeze fluttered through, bringing a sweet perfume into her room.

She had hoped it would come. She had hoped that the spoon, polished carefully early that morning, would draw it out. It was shiny enough – she could see her reflection in it. What else did she need?

Sarah walked to her mother’s room and came back, carrying an ornate hand-mirror that her grandmother had once owned.

She placed that next to the spoon and stepped back once more.

The sun’s reflection in the two objects shown on her ceiling. She didn’t have anything shinier to give. It would come out now or never.

Slowly, as the old metal hinges squeaked in protest, the closet door opened. It was like watching spring come over winter – so slow you wanted to scream, but still beautiful.

It crept closer to the spoon, then saw the mirror and jumped upon that. Sarah stood, amazed, as it sat upon the mirror, probably admiring its appearance.

Yes, this is what it had come for. Sarah knew it had liked her house – conveniently placed next to the forest, quaint, small, yet gorgeous. Of course it had liked her house. They always did.

Then it zoomed away, and out the window into the sunny afternoon, leaving nothing but ten tiny fingerprints on her spoon and a sprinkle of golden dust upon her mirror.

It may have left, but they would be back soon. Fairies could never resist their own reflections.

Sunday, June 12, 2011

First Post

Huh. This is really weird. A blog - my own blog. Sure, I've written things before, but never a blog.

I should probably start by introducing myself. I am Rubescent Sunshine - rubescent meaning reddening. I suppose it sounds better than "Blushing Sunshine," right? I chose the name because sunsets have always been dear to my heart. It's that time right before the dark comes, yet after the day has ended, when everything gets still and quiet and you can just see nature at its finest.

I am a young writer. I'll be posting some stories on here, whether they be chapters or short stories, or maybe even poems. For me, this is a creative outlet. For you readers, maybe you just want to read another young writer's works, compare what you are writing to what I am. Maybe you are an experienced writer, and want to laugh at what I write. Haha... go ahead. If you do, though... mind giving me some pointers?

Thank you to whoever is reading this. Creative outlets are hard to find out there. I hope this blog can be one spot for young writers like me to come and to read, or write, or just kind of talk with other inexperienced writers like me.