May 9

Inside My Mind: My Last Post

So…this is my last blog post. I should make it something special, am I right? The problem is I can’t think about what I want to write. There’s so much, yet nothing at all to write about. The endless possibilities are too overwhelming for me to handle!

I could write about anything: I dragon protecting a castle with Prince Charming coming to save it, conspiracy theories of aliens in the universe, start a new fiction series, but no. I don’t want to write about any of that. It was suggested that I write advice for incoming 7th graders, or middle schoolers in general. I tried that…it didn’t work to well. Here’s what I had…

“•PENCILS: I know you hear ‘don’t lose your pencils’ every single year, but trust me. This year actually make that happen. I lost about 3 pencils on the first day! That makes a huge difference in the future!”

…and that’s it. It’s strange that I couldn’t come up with anything else. I have all of these ideas like iPad advice, homework advice, etc. I just can’t get it on the paper, or screen I guess. There’s something else I could write about. How I feel on iPads and tablets being bigger then paper. Well, bigger isn’t the word…Being used more. That’s what i was trying to say.

People have all of these ideas of what they’re going to write as advice, and I’m over here just typing the first thing that comes to my mind. Yes, I know this post will be all over the place. Yes, I realize this isn’t the great piece of literature you were expecting for my last post, but hey: I figured at some point you deserve to get an inside look into my mind.

That would be a great book idea: Inside Your Mind: a story about you. I guess that would be a book. It would probably be more of a diary, but it could still be a good idea. I don’t want to come back to this post later because my mind will be different. Maybe it will be less scattered, or less…what’s the word…blank? I guess that could work. I’ll come back later to edit, but other than that. I’m not touching this.

The only thing that’s left is the title. What should it be? Anything could work. I could be “Scattered” or “An Inside Look” or just simply “Inside My Mind”. Let’s go with the last one…yeah…the last one will work.

All right this is it. This is my last post. It’s weird knowing that, most likely, I will never pick this up again. Well I guess this is it. I’m not so good at goodbyes, so…bye!

April 27

Test- Part 9: The End…For Now

Coming out of surgery was hard, but harder than the PTSD? Nope. I haven’t been able to sleep, properly, since I came out of my–it’s still hard to say–coma. Dreams of the other contestants dying either a slow or very fast death hurt my chest. It’s been a few days since my 5th and FINAL surgery which means it’s time to see the house.

They had to:
A: put me in a wheel chair
B: blindfold me
C: get me in the car

And trust me that was no easy task. They told me they had to blindfold me so I “couldn’t tell anyone where I was” I don’t even know how I would get there. What seemed like an eight hour drive with no AC or music or anything. Was taking me to a place I’d never been. I wouldn’t know anyone unless the hope that my dad had somehow won wasn’t just hope.

When we got there an overwhelming sent of wood covered me. There were birds chirping, and that’s something I haven’t heard in a while. It was nice to hear a bit of normal in the chaos going on around me. The lady who drove me took off my blindfold which I now see is a dirty old rag.

The house wasn’t even a house: it was a mansion. So many different windows to so many different rooms. Different building being swallowed by the trees–trees–we were in a forest completely excluded from society. I see ten different people on the front porch to what looks like the main house. Yeah that’s right, the MAIN house.

An old woman in a wheelchair who has silvery-blue hair was spaced out. She looked like she was listening to an amazing song, but only she could hear it. Behind her was a man who couldn’t have been older than thirty with short, curly blonde hair. The other people didn’t look important. People between the age of 30-60 either looking like they wanted to kill me, or looking like they wanted to run up and hug me, but one man caught my eye. He looked about the age of 45, the same as my mom, and he was praying in the corner. He wouldn’t look at me.

The lady left in the rusty old pickup-truck with me standing there like a deer in headlights. I walked right pass the people on the porch, they lady in the wheel chair, the man behind her, and walked up to the praying man.

“Why are you praying” I asked as I sat down next to him. The man never responded, but he started to cry, and he still wouldn’t look at me.

“My daughter was there, with you,” he finally said through gritted teeth, “well…honestly she could be you, but I don’t want to know. I don’t want to face the facts that she could be dead, or that you killed her.”

“Name?”

“Mine or her’s?” he chuckled.

“Her’s.”

“Lilly,” was all he said.

“Well, I met Lilly in the arena. She said she was hoping to win so she could see her father if he was still alive. It kept her going.”

“And then you killed her. Like most people would do.” He still didn’t look at me.

“No, I never killed her, and actually I think she won,” I said smiling. He looked at me with tears streaming down his face.

“Lilly?” he said starting to look up. I smiled and hugged him. We both sat there crying with what once was sadness, but was now the most wonderful feeling in the world.

Everyone started to pile back into the main house while my dad gave me the tour. We talked about the arena, the other people with me, the tasks, yet we were both quiet. The Test wasn’t something people talked about later, and if I had talked for another minute about it I would have started to cry.

“Um…where am I going to sleep. I’m exhausted and just want to go to bed and forget the day.” I said looking down. A feeling of guilt came over me because I wasn’t staying with my newly found father, but I don’t want to remember the pain I felt.

“Oh…uh…yeah. You’re going to be living in that house over there.” He said pointing to a red brick house with a brown wooden roof.

“Thank you…I’ll…see you soon.” I said practically running to the house.

It started to rain on my way, so I had to start running. I got into the dark house and I smell of dust and bleach washed over me. The living area had a couch, TV, coffee table. There was a door on the wall that led to a small office area with a computer, a fairly new one too. Then I got into the kitchen. The fridge was stocked with food of all kinds. Everything you can imagine was packed into the large sterling silver fridge. I was walking around on the tile when my mind slipped.

Running. Running from a little girl. A rock in hand. Glass beneath my feet. Panick. The glass broke out from under me.

Now I’m back in the kitchen crying. I knew the PTSD was bad, but I never thought it would be like this. Something told me to look down. I saw where the black smell came in. This house used to belong to someone else, but they couldn’t handle the PTSD. A blood stain laid on the floor. I got more bleach out from under the sink and set it next to the stain. I would clean it, but not now.

I ran up to the bedroom and got into bed. I sat there crying for a good 20 minutes. The rain seemed in sync with my tears falling from my face. I started to fall asleep.

Then the nightmares began.

April 12

Test-Part 8: The White Room

I woke up in a room. A white room. With a bed. But I couldn’t see. Everything around me was white and blurry. I could see the outline of other beds and people and…I don’t even want to know what that could be. Where am I? That’s a question that keeps coming up. A person…or thing…comes up to me. Whom ever this is, is wearing a blue suit like thing. Something cold pricks my arm, and everything fades to black.

I wake up, yet again, but this time the once bright white room is now a dark grey room. The beds are there. My vision is back…ish, and there are curtains surrounding my bed. They are the same color that the mysterious arm pricker was wearing. I don’t know how long I sat there. Waiting. Waiting for someone to, I don’t know, prick my arm again, carry me home, tell me everything’s going to be okay? Standing wasn’t an option. I tried to sit up and pain shot through…well…everywhere up to my head and made me lie back down. What to do, what to do? What do you do when you can’t move, and can barely see? Scream.

I screamed so loud I’m sure Pluto could hear me, but I got results. Ten men, thank god they were men and not things, ran up to me asking a million questions.

“Are you hurt?” One asked

“What’s going on?” The other said

This went on for about five minutes until they finally shut up.

“Listen,” I said between gritted teeth, “I just want you to tell me where I am, what happened to me, and where I’m going. The last thing I remember is being in the test and seeing old memories, so tell me what is going on!”

They sat there for a long time exchanging glances. Did I say something wrong? I don’t even know anymore.

“Um…that whole memory thing…yeah they never happened. You’ve been in a coma for several days. The last thing that actually happened to you was breaking the glass in the test. You weren’t supposed to do that. You were supposed to kill the girl and move on, but instead you had to go and break the rules.”

I was in shock. A COMA ARE YOU KIDDING ME HOW! I took that anger and bit my cheeks. I don’t need another shot.

“So what now? Are you going to kill me?” I asked knowing that if you don’t “pass” the test–you die.

“Why would we do that? You passed” said a man with blood still shiny on his uniform. I guess surgery had to wait.

How could I win!? I was at a loss for words. I just sat there stuttering until I could finally get some words out. “How could I have won? I broke the rules?”

“Well I’m guessing the Masters thought what you did was smart enough to win without even finishing the test. Congratulations.”

I was completely dumbfounded. “But wait what happened to me? How did I get in the hospital?” I asked realizing that was the question I should have asked a long time ago.

“Well…when you broke the glass floor you landed in a pile…of glass. There are still shards in you. You are scheduled for your 5th surgery tomorrow morning.”

5th! 5 surgeries. My lord. Then I actually looked at myself for the first time in–days–weeks–months! I don’t even know anymore, but I saw two casts. One on my leg and one on my arm. I guess I didn’t have a smooth landing.

The doctor guys gave me another shot so I could sleep. I had to get my rest. According to another doctor tomorrow, after surgery, I was going to The House.

April 7

The Witch’s Daughter: Review

P3021947Creative Commons License Stanisław.k via Compfight

The Witch’s Daughter

John Greenleaf Whittier

 

It was the pleasant harvest time,
When cellar-bins are closely stowed,
And garrets bend beneath their load,

And the old swallow-haunted barns –
Brown-gabled, long, and full of seams
Through which the moted sunlight streams,

And winds blow freshly in, to shake
The red plumes of the roosted cocks,
And the loose hay-mow’s scented locks –

Are filled with summer’s ripened stores,
Its odorous grass and barley sheaves,
From their low scaffolds to their eaves.

On Esek Harden’s oaken floor,
With many an autmn threshing worn,
Lay the heaped ears of unhusked corn.

And thither came young men and maids,
Beneath a moon that, large and low,
Lit that sweet eve of long ago.

They took their places; some by chance,
And others by a merry voice
Or sweet smile guided to their choice.

How pleasantly the rising moon,
Between the shadow of the mows,
Looked on them through the great elm-boughs! –

On sturdy boyhood sun-embrowned,
On girlhood with its solid curves
Of healthful strength and painless nerves!

And jests went round, and laughs that made
The house-dog answer with his howl,
And kept astir the barn-yard fowl;

And quaint old songs their fathers sung
In Derby dales and Yorkshire moors,
Ere Norman William trod their shores;

And tales, whose merry license shook
The fat sides of the Saxon thane,
Forgetful of the hovering Dane,—­

Rude plays to Celt and Cimbri known,
The charms and riddles that beguiled
On Oxus’ banks the young world’s child,—­

That primal picture-speech wherein
Have youth and maid the story told,
So new in each, so dateless old,

Recalling pastoral Ruth in her
Who waited, blushing and demure,
The red-ear’s kiss of forfeiture.

But still the sweetest voice was mute
That river-valley ever heard
From lips of maid or throat of bird;

For Mabel Martin sat apart,
And let the hay-mow’s shadow fall
Upon the loveliest face of all.

She sat apart, as one forbid,
Who knew that none would condescend
To own the Witch-wife’s child a friend.

The seasons scarce had gone their round,
Since curious thousands thronged to see
Her mother at the gallows-tree;

And mocked the prison-palsied limbs
That faltered on the fatal stairs,
And wan lip trembling with its prayers!

Few questioned of the sorrowing child,
Or, when they saw the mother die;
Dreamed of the daughter’s agony.

They went up to their homes that day,
As men and Christians justified
God willed it, and the wretch had died!

Dear God and Father of us all,
Forgive our faith in cruel lies,—­
Forgive the blindness that denies!

Forgive thy creature when he takes,
For the all-perfect love Thou art,
Some grim creation of his heart.

Cast down our idols, overturn
Our bloody altars; let us see
Thyself in Thy humanity!

Poor Mabel from her mother’s grave
Crept to her desolate hearth-stone,
And wrestled with her fate alone;

With love, and anger, and despair,
The phantoms of disordered sense,
The awful doubts of Providence!

The school-boys jeered her as they passed,
And, when she sought the house of prayer,
Her mother’s curse pursued her there.

And still o’er many a neighboring door
She saw the horseshoe’s curved charm,
To guard against her mother’s harm; –

That mother, poor, and sick, and lame,
Who daily, by the old arm-chair,
Folded her withered hands in prayer; –

Who turned, in Salem’s dreary jail,
Her worn old Bible o’er and o’er,
When her dim eyes could read no more!

Sore tried and pained, the poor girl kept
Her faith, and trusted that her way,
So dark, would somewhere meet the day.

And still her weary wheel went round
Day after day, with no relief
Small leisure have the poor for grief.

So in the shadow Mabel sits;
Untouched by mirth she sees and hears,
Her smile is sadder than her tears.

But cruel eyes have found her out,
And cruel lips repeat her name,
And taunt her with her mother’s shame.

She answered not with railing words,
But drew her apron o’er her face,
And, sobbing, glided from the place.

And only pausing at the door,
Her sad eyes met the troubled gaze
Of one who, in her better days,

Had been her warm and steady friend,
Ere yet her mother’s doom had made
Even Esek Harden half afraid.

He felt that mute appeal of tears,
And, starting, with an angry frown,
Hushed all the wicked murmurs down.

‘Good neighbors mine,’ he sternly said,
‘This passes harmless mirth or jest;
I brook no insult to my guest.

‘She is indeed her mother’s child;
But God’s sweet pity ministers
Unto no whiter soul than hers.

‘Let Goody Martin rest in peace;
I never knew her harm a fly,
And witch or not, God knows – not I.

‘I know who swore her life away;
And as God lives, I’d not condemn
An Indian dog on word of them.’

The broadest lands in all the town,
The skill to guide, the power to awe,
Were Harden’s; and his word was law.

None dared withstand him to his face,
But one sly maiden spake aside
‘The little witch is evil-eyed!

‘Her mother only killed a cow,
Or witched a churn or dairy-pan;
But she, forsooth, must charm a man!’

Poor Mabel, in her lonely home,
Sat by the window’s narrow pane,
White in the moonlight’s silver rain.

The river, on its pebbled rim,
Made music such as childhood knew;
The door-yard tree was whispered through

By voices such as childhood’s ear
Had heard in moonlights long ago;
And through the willow-boughs below.

She saw the rippled waters shine;
Beyond, in waves of shade and light,
The hills rolled off into the night.

She saw and heard, but over all
A sense of some transforming spell,
The shadow of her sick heart fell.

And still across the wooded space
The harvest lights of Harden shone,
And song and jest and laugh went on.

And he, so gentle, true, and strong,
Of men the bravest and the best,
Had he, too, scorned her with the rest?

She strove to drown her sense of wrong,
And, in her old and simple way,
To teach her bitter heart to pray.

Poor child! the prayer, begun in faith,
Grew to a low, despairing cry
Of utter misery: ‘Let me die!

‘Oh! take me from the scornful eyes,
And hide me where the cruel speech
And mocking finger may not reach!

‘I dare not breathe my mother’s name
A daughter’s right I dare not crave
To weep above her unblest grave!

‘Let me not live until my heart,
With few to pity, and with none
To love me, hardens into stone.

‘O God! have mercy on Thy child,
Whose faith in Thee grows weak and small,
And take me ere I lose it all!’

A shadow on the moonlight fell,
And murmuring wind and wave became
A voice whose burden was her name.

Had then God heard her? Had He sent
His angel down? In flesh and blood,
Before her Esek Harden stood!

He laid his hand upon her arm
‘Dear Mabel, this no more shall be;
Who scoffs at you must scoff at me.

‘You know rough Esek Harden well;
And if he seems no suitor gay,
And if his hair is touched with gray,

‘The maiden grown shall never find
His heart less warm than when she smiled,
Upon his knees, a little child!’

Her tears of grief were tears of joy,
As, folded in his strong embrace,
She looked in Esek Harden’s face.

‘O truest friend of all” she said,
‘God bless you for your kindly thought,
And make me worthy of my lot!’

He led her through his dewy fields,
To where the swinging lanterns glowed,
And through the doors the huskers showed.

‘Good friends and neighbors!’ Esek said,
‘I’m weary of this lonely life;
In Mabel see my chosen wife!

‘She greets you kindly, one and all;
The past is past, and all offence
Falls harmless from her innocence.

‘Henceforth she stands no more alone;
You know what Esek Harden is: –
He brooks no wrong to him or his.’

Now let the merriest tales be told,
And let the sweetest songs be sung
That ever made the old heart young!

For now the lost has found a home;
And a lone hearth shall brighter burn,
As all the household joys return!

Oh, pleasantly the harvest-moon,
Between the shadow of the mows,
Looked on them through the great elm-boughs!

On Mabel’s curls of golden hair,
On Esek’s shaggy strength it fell;
And the wind whispered, ‘It is well!’

 

This was a very long, but well written poem. I really liked this one, and honestly it made me choke up a bit. The poem shows how fast society is willing to judge you, and it wasn’t even her they were judging! Because her mother was a witch they automatically didn’t like her. I absolutely loved this poem and I would love to check out more of his work. I hope you enjoyed it too!

 

 

March 3

Test-Part 7: Falling

Falling.

That’s all I know right now. My mind is blank. I can’t open my eyes, yet I am as calm as I have ever been. Where am I? I don’t care. It’s peaceful, quiet, just what I want. To be left alone. Then I see it. An old memory of me and my dad.

“Come on you can do it.” he says pushing me on my bike.

“No I can’t. It’s on two wheels. I’m gonna fall…again.” I say being my snarky self.

“Don’t say that,” he says ignoring my comment, “just try. I know you can do this.”

“Fine.” and there I go. Pushing myself forward thinking “Make him proud” “You’ve got this” and I did. I made it to the end of the hill. My dad is running toward me, and I’m running toward him.  Then, this beautiful memory, was snatched away from me. My dad falls through a hold in the sidewalk that wasn’t there before. It closes. The once bright, happy, and sunny park became something of a nightmare. My dad was gone. The sun was gone. It was a dark, depressing place.

I then saw my mom. Standing in front of me. She reached out to me, but something made me stop from doing the same to her. Her arm went down. Mine went up. She turned away. And fell through the same door as my dad. I was alone. Then I started to float.

Falling.

Back to the same thing I knew before. My mind is blank. I can’t open my eyes, but this time I’m not calm. I forgot the reason I was here, and that was to win, find my dad, call my mom, and make everything as normal as possible.

I open my eyes and see a room. I have not been falling. I’m in a bed. A hospital bed, and again I feel peaceful.

February 11

I’m a Bit Obsessed…

It’s really become a true problem in my life. No one can show me anything these days without me getting WAY to into it: TV shows, music, movies. You name it and at some point I have been obsessed with it. All of it, has not only taken over my life, but I would rather live in that fantasy world than the real one in front of me. I will actually go to my room, close the blinds, windows, turn off the lights, put in headphones, and sit there and watch the show or movie or what ever.

The worst one was How I Met Your Mother. I had watched it all the way through in a period of a month–THERE ARE 9 SEASONS OF THIS SHOW! 9 22-25 episode seasons that I finished in one month. That’s almost 17 hours a day (it was during the summer I do go to school, but do I have a life…no, no I don’t). The worst part is that I didn’t just watch that once, I watched the entire series 5 more times. I can almost recite every episode. It’s not something I’m proud of.

So the moral of this story is don’t show me anything unless you want constant texts about what going on. Just…just don’t.

February 9

Test- Part 6: Shatter the Floor

Dark, dark, and more dark. It was everywhere. What now? I walk around with my hands at my head looking for a light switch or…God forbid…something else. I walked and walked and walk for hours in the same direction without hitting a wall, or a switch for that matter. I squat down and touch the floor. Glass. Why is the floor glass? How is it black? Is this my way out? What do I break the glass with? Then I hear it. “Help.”

I walk around towards the voice. My feet are echoing every step I take. “Help.” I hear again. The more this girl or woman says it the more distressed it sounds. After, what seemed like, hours I found her. And of course the sneaky jerks controlling this thing gave her a rock. A rock to kill me with.

I started to run, but I couldn’t see her, but she couldn’t see me either. I ran and ran and ran until I tripped on something. A rock. I wasn’t killing anyone. I wasn’t that type of person. I picked up the rock and ran. I ran for another 20 minutes with miss kill kill kill behind me. Then I realized. A rock (that I had to find). Glass floors. Danger.

Shatter the floor.

January 27

The Phantoms Lair

A small muddy path leads to a dark cave-like place. The room was very dim; the only light was from a single spot light on a mannequin with a wedding dress on fit for Christine. A throne fit for a king lay next to the old, worn wedding dress. The throne seemed to have a gold trim and the bright red velvet that you sat on was now a dusty gray color.
The piles of broken props from past opera’s that don’t have a place anymore went all the way up to the ceiling. A table in the far corner of the room only had to objects and a blueprint for what looked like a music box, but this project was given up on. The cobwebs covered the two objects so you can’t even tell what they once were.
In another corner lay a sheet over what looked like a piece of furniture, but it was really dead bodies, or skeletons I should say, that were so old they came together. You couldn’t tell where one person began and another ended.
Nooses were hung almost everywhere waiting for someone to get caught, but the question is: Who were they waiting for?

January 13

Test Part: 5: Flicker

“Why are you trying so hard?” An old woman with a came told me.

What is this test? To see how long I could last? To see my response? What is the point of this? I will never understand, but I was starting to go insane. People looking, judging, screaming at me and telling me where I should go when I die. They called me names. Horrible names that even I, a 16 year old girl who went to the worst school, didn’t even know.

I walked for what seemed like hours: only to come across a building. Not the ones from before that were falling apart, but a clean, new, glass building. There were people inside that weren’t like the ones on the street. They wore normal people clothes, fancy ones, but normal clothes. Everyone was either at a computer or pacing back and fourth like there was something to worry about. There was still something off. The more I looked at the building everything else around me: flickered. This one shiny glass building was sturdy and still, but the more I looked at it then looked around the more the people, buildings, even the sidewalks flickered.

I stood there and stared. The people around me were skipping when they spoke like a broken CD. I gathered up the courage to see the hundreds of people waiting to judge. Hundreds of eyes staring at me like I was a freak. Hundreds of eyes wanting to kill me with one glance. I had to do it. There was a reason this was here, and that reason was for me and me alone.

I circled the building about 20 times before realizing there was no door, but there was a way in. A small slit in the corner of the building was the only way in. I made sure the glass wasn’t sharp, and that I could actually fit without getting stuck or breaking anything which I could. I slipped in the crack and everyone in the building turned to face me. They were staring like I was a freak. Then everything went black.

November 20

Test Part 4: Monsters around me

I could see nothing but dirt, trees, and old stone buildings that could be torn down with the breath of the wind, and yet there were people. Not people from these…what-ever-you-call-it, but people from the real world. Out side of this made up fantasy world that I now live in. Did I find a way out? Is this a trap? Will they kill me with one glance? Who knows. I took my little pocket knife out, but it was hidden in my cloak of leaves.

“Hello? Can someone help me?” I screech. I hadn’t had water in forever, and I hadn’t talked in forever. My voice was nothing but a whisper. “Please, someone? Get me out of here!”
“Stop talking, you sound like a beggar,” someone snapped.
“Excuse me? How dare you!” my voice started to come back to life.
“Why do you look like a tree’s trash bag?” someone else passed me.
“This is what I’m trying to tell you! If you would just shut your mouth and listen…” I know the test: the last part was to see what I could do with the worst bag ever. This one was to stay calm when everyone around me was judging me.
“Um…hello earth to ugly.” he laughed then left
My fists started to clench, but I had to pass this. I want going to lose just because I can’t keep my cool.

I walked. Trying to hum to a song that wasn’t playing to keep out the horrible things that were around me. Monsters you could say. I had to get out, I had to find a way out. The last test I spent 3 days on. This one had to be one day or I would fail. I knew this test, my father had to take this test before he left. He failed, and I couldn’t.