the sun is fading away

For November 7, 2009

it's getting late
the sun is fading away
across the sky and beyond the horizon
some days i want to follow it
chase after that ball of energy
be its shadow
i want to go where the sun always shines
no darkness
no lost hours of a day
to feel free to explore
and adventure off into uncharted lands
it's getting late
the sun is fading away
the sun is gone

Cry

For November 6, 2009

Cry.
Let out all the pent up emotions,
the feelings unsaid,
every last tear.
Cry.
That wall you put up
is finally being broken.
Cry.
Keep weeping until
you're exhausted.
Use all that energy
and strength to let it all out.
Cry.
Don't hold anything back,
because this is the last time
you will cry for me.
So cry.

Writing on the wall: My sister contiuation

This picks up right from where I left off in an earlier post of my Writing on the wall story.

For November 5, 2009

I closed the front door behind me, knowing that by the time I tried to inch my way up the stairs Aidan would be calling me back down into the living room to give me her life updates. Sure enough, she was home, and in a talkative mood.

“Zoe?” she called. I decided not to fight it and walked straight into the living room. “Is that you?” Her voice was perky, she knew it was me and she was happy.

“Yep, it's me,” I replied, plopping down on the Lay-Z Boy chair adjacent to the couch she was lying on.

Aidan sat up, crossing her legs. She smiled, clasping her hands together. “Good, I really need to tell you about what happened at work today.”

Unconsciously, I sunk a little in my chair, propping my elbow onto the arm of the chair and leaning on my hand. Aidan was like the Energizer Bunny: she could keep going and going. Once she started it was hard for to her stop. I listened to her begin telling me about two of her co-workers that were upset that another co-worker just got promoted to assistant manager—she worked at a clothing store at the local mall—and they thought the promotion was unfair. The last I heard was that “Justine totally didn't sleep with Greg, but they all think she did” before I zoned out and slipped into my own world.

I was standing in front of the bathroom sink again, staring at the eerie phrase scribbled on the wall. The room was empty and silent, no water running this time. My eyes were just glued to the wall, unable to look away or even blink. That image was displayed so clearly in my head, I couldn't get rid of it.

“Zoe. Zoe?”

I jerked my head up. “What?”

Aidan crossed her hands over her chest. “Did you even hear anything I just said?” she asked, her voice whinny.

“Um, no. Sorry. I'm not really feeling that well today,” I told her, rubbing my forehead.

“Are you okay?”

I let out a deep breath, very slowly, and tried to put on my best “I'm okay, really” face. “Oh, yeah. Don't worry about it.” I stood up, clearing my throat. “I'm just gonna go up to my room for a little.”

“Okay,” Aidan said.

I knew she was was watching me as I walked away, so I tried my best not to move too fast and rush up to my room. Once I was clear from her view I hustled up the stairs, slipped into my room and shut the door. Dumping my backpack on my desk, I turned to look in my mirror. My reflection was never something that scared me or made me uneasy. There were people in the world that had a phobia of their own reflection—as bizarre as that sounds—but thankfully I wasn't one of them. I saw a five-three, Japanese-Irish girl with thick black hair that I had always seen. Bangs swept to the side, earrings, no make-up. Same like everyday. Yet I looked at myself differently that time, curious as to whoever wrote that message on the wall, and if that person was really directing it to me, Zoe McCarthy.

All that glitters

For November 4, 2009

Bright lights,
big cities,
that's where we all want to be.
In a dreamland
of excitement and success.
A surreal place of existence
where it's never time to sleep,
only a time of nightlife.
Names on the big screen,
flashing neon signs,
a street named after you.
With fame and fortune,
in this town,
all that glitters is really gold.

Dear Leslie

For November 3, 2009

Dear Leslie,

It's hard for me to sit here, writing this letter to you. I wish I could say all of this to you, face to face, but you've made that pretty hard in this situation. I guess you were feeling pretty positive about leaving, weren't you? I mean, you just got up and left, without saying anything to anyone...which I think is pretty damn selfish of you. You've acted as if no one in this town cares for you. As if you don't have anyone to turn to or that wants you here. And you know that's total bullshit.

There are TONS of people that care about you, love you, but it's like we're not good enough for you. You have this desire of finding other people more suitable for this new lifestyle you got going for you. You're such a city girl, aren't you? It makes me cringe to think of what you think of our town, the place that we all grew up in. Are you embarrassed about being from a small hick town, is that it? I know we can't compete with any big city that you're always going off about. But is this place really all that bad?

I don't think it is. You didn't to either. But then everything changed that one Christmas.

You know, I thought that it was gonna be you and me facing the world together each day at a time: Leslie and Laura, till the end. But I guess you've moved on from that.

Look, I don't wanna make you pissed or anything, more than you probably already are. But I just wish you talked to me like you used to. I wanna know what's going on with you and why you left. That's all I really wanna know. So, that's why I'm leaving this letter at your house. You said that when you leave this town you wouldn't be coming back. But I also remember that you believed in that saying, “Home is where the heart is” more than anyone I know. And deep down, you know Grayson will always be your home.


Love,


Laura

Writing on the wall: My sister

With the past week being real shitty, I didn't update at all. But I did still write something for each day. I'll try to get caught up this weekend.

For November 2, 2009

This excerpt comes from the story I started last semester, Writing on the wall. I initially didn't really have any plans for the story, but the more I thought about it, I wanted to see where I could take it. So this part is when the main girl, Zoe, is talking about her older sister, Aidan.

My older sister, Aidan, was in deed a force to be reckoned with. Not only was she the bold, outspoken older sibling, but she made it a point to live up to the meaning of her name: fire. Once she began dressing herself, Aidan chose to wear warm colors, like reds and oranges. She took up salsa dancing in middle school and continued through high school, winning a few awards during those years. People didn't think she would be that good at salsa dancing, but boy did she prove everyone wrong. Aidan was a five-six, curvy little ball of energy that was always the life of the party; but being the life of the party wasn't an easy job.

Aidan had to “keep up appearances” with the numerous social crowds that she ran with. Barbeque's during the summer, movie nights once a month, and countless nights clubbing. She was always cycling in and out of the house, changing clothes to blend with the group she was going out with and ranting about so-and-so talking shit about so-and-so. It was hard to keep up with all the drama that went on with her friends, but over the years I had perfected the skill of ignoring most of what Aidan dished out. Yet I still paid enough attention to repeat to her that Julie from high school auditioned for Broadway but didn't make it and that Dustin and Brian from the swim team she met over the summer both hooked up with Becca in the same week.

I was almost the complete opposite compared to my sister. I behaved more toward our Japanese genes than our Irish ones. I upheld the “traditional” quite, Asian girl stereotype, never speaking out of turn or raising my voice unless necessary. Granted, I did look more Japanese while Aidan had stronger Irish features; and because of that, I feel as if I fell into my personalities to match my looks.

Not My Responsibility

Take a wild guess about who this one is about.

You are not my responsibility.
You are your own person,
an adult.
Act like one.
You are fully capable of providing for yourself
so do it.
Don't depend on me,
on anyone else to keep giving and giving.
I have nothing to give
and even if I did,
I wouldn't.
You don't deserve it.
You deserve nothing for the nothing you do.
You are no my responsibility.

Our Halloween

Since yesterday I was busy most of the day so I didn't have time to post my story. I wrote a Halloween themed short story. I actually really like this one, because it's pretty basic and simple, but it's still got this substance to it that makes it rad. Of course I'll let you guys be the judge of it.

It's a well-known myth that All Hallows' Eve is the best time for the spirits of the dead to “come to life,” so to speak. Several cultures revolve the last day of October around the notion that they can communicate with the deceased, connect with a loved one, or that the evil spirits will run amuck and terrorize those still living. I'd always been open to the beliefs and ghost stories I'd hear come every Halloween. I found everything supernatural so intriguing and buried myself in that sort of information. It became a fascination―not so much an obsession like my peers called it―because I'd always hoped there was something greater beyond this world.

For as long as I could remember, Jeremy and I would spend every Halloween together since we were kids. We started out trick-or-treating in our neighborhood, graduated to school dances, eventually moved on to costume parties at friends' houses, but then we lost interest in the same old happenings with the same people we saw all the time. When we were in high school and college Halloween just became a night to have parties, get drunk and hopefully hook up with some random guy or girl whose name was never learned. That's when we started doing our own thing, just the two of us.

It was a tradition from our younger years that we would bring the candy that each other liked. It had become a problem when neither of us would get the specific candy we liked when we trick-or-treated, so to make sure that by the end of the night we would be snacking on the candy of our liking, we'd exchange a bag of the candy we wanted. The first time I bought Jeremy his bag of Snickers I had to sneak money out of my piggy bank when I was seven and ask my older sister if she could go to the store and buy it for me―and not to tell mom and dad. I hid the candy at the bottom of my bag and right before we would turn onto our street and Jeremy and his dad would go down theirs, we'd sneak each other our bags of candy―Jeremy would get his Snickers and I'd take home a bag of Recess Peanut Butter Cups. We felt so dangerous at the time.

Jeremy and I didn't have to secretly buy each other the bags of candy as we got older and could go to the store by ourselves. In college, we couldn't even wait until later that night, so we would bring the bags of candy to school. Our friends thought we were weird, carrying on a silly tradition from our childhood, but as Jeremy put it, “without silly childhood traditions, we lose the simplicity of life.”

When parties and hook ups got too overrated and became the normalcy of our friends, Jeremy and I started spending our Halloween nights watching one movie―It's The Great Pumpkin, Charlie Brown―then we would walk around in our neighborhood and go to a small park, where we'd sit under an aging oak tree, exchange our candy, and just spend the rest of the night enjoying each other's company. He would always ask me to tell stories of a supernatural creature, a different one every year. Since it was my area of expertise, I never denied some storytelling.

Jeremy, who would often go off and think out loud about the spirit world, would start talking about the deceased and how he hoped that they still got to have a Halloween every year. He wanted to know that he could still spend October 31, sitting under an old tree in some park, getting sick on Snickers and talking with me for hours. I told him that I didn't know for sure what would happen after we died, but I knew that we would be together, enjoying each other's company.

The second year we would spend Halloween at the park, Jeremy brought along a small little box, as tiny as a jewelry box you give as a gift. He told me, “Make a wish,” as he handed me a small slip of paper and a pen. In Jeremy's mind, special nights called for special wishes, and Halloween was definitely our special night. We'd write our wishes down then he would put it in the box, bury it under the tree in the spot where we would sit, where it would wait for us to come back the next year―another one of our traditions. The last time that we wrote our wishes down, something was different about the way Jeremy acted. He stared at his piece of paper for a long time, then after a while, he flipped it over and wrote something else on the back. I asked him what he wrote down but he refused to tell me. The deal we'd made was that we wouldn't ever read each other's wishes, but one year, when the time was right, we would go through all of our wishes and see if any of them had come true. I asked him, “How're we gonna know when the time is right?” Jeremy just looked at me and said, “We'll know.”

The following summer Jeremy got pushed into traffic when he tried to stop a fight that was going on between two groups of guys on a busy street downtown. He didn't know any of the guys involved in the fight, but that didn't matter, he still tried to stop what was going on. There was a big moving truck speeding down the road when Jeremy got pushed out onto the road. He fell on his back and didn't have enough time to get back up before the truck hit him. He died instantly.

The first Halloween that I wouldn't be spending with Jeremy was the hardest. He was my best friend for life, and all of a sudden I had no best friend in my life. I almost decided that I couldn't do my normal traditions of this time of the year. It felt like I would be continuing on with something that was mine and Jeremy's: it belonged to the both of us, and without the other, it just didn't seem right. But something inside of me―maybe Jeremy's voice that I often heard when it was real quiet―told me that I should still go through our Halloween traditions.

I watched It's The Great Pumpkin, Charlie Brown by myself, laughing and smiling quietly. When it was done I walked to the grocery store to pick up a bag of Snickers and headed out to the park. It was deserted, at eleven-thirty at night, with most people already home or still busy at parties or out in the city. I walked along a dark road that lead me to the neighborhood park that I spent lots of my time at as a little girl. When I got close to the oak tree we'd sit under, I couldn't walk any further. I stood a good thirty feet away from it and chose to sit on the faded green, wooden bench for a little.

Light posts were scattered around the park, but only a few, since it was a rather small playing area in our town. You could see the orange and yellow leaves hanging onto the branches, and the sound of the rustling leaves echoed when the wind would blow through the trees. I closed my eyes and sat silently for along time, breathing slowly, and remembered all the times I'd spent with Jeremy on that night years before. My head finally felt calm, after three months of mourning over the loss of Jeremy, and my heart felt like it was at peace.

I brought along with me a small shovel and a new piece of paper. I wrote my wish down and folded it in half then stuck it in my pocket. I carried my backpack over with me to the tree, walking very slowly as I eased my way toward the oak tree. When I got closer I could see that the dirt that our wish box was usually buried under looked like it had been dug up. The ground was loose around it, and like a classic Halloween cliché, I felt a shiver go up my spine.

I didn't really need the shovel to dig up the dirt, but I used it anyway, and found the small box, its gold color faded and dirty. I took the bag of Snickers out of my bag and placed it against the trunk of the tree. Seeing the unopened bag of candy in front of me was so unusual; Jeremy would rip open the bag and devour those Snickers before I could get through five of my Recess Peanut Butter Cups. I held the small box in my hand and stood up. I figured that it was a good time to open it and read our wishes we had written down, and that's when I saw it. I took a few steps to the side, around the trunk of the tree and saw a bright orange bag of Recess Peanut Butter Cups, just sitting there on the roots and grass. Hesitant, thinking that I was imagining all of this in my mind, I waited a few moments until I picked it up and sure enough, it was real.

I frantically looked around the park, expecting to see someone walking, maybe even running away from the area. But there was no one around, not a single person in the park but me. And even if there was someone there, how would he or she know about our candy exchange? Neither of us had told anyone about it; even as teenagers and young adults, we still liked having our secrets just between the two of us, just like when we were kids.

Without thinking, I called out his name. “Jeremy?” I was surprised at how much my voice cracked as I said his name. It was shaky, and quiet, almost too soft for anyone to hear me.

I got no response. I was hoping for some kind of sign―a gust of wind, the lamps to flicker―but only silence surrounded me.

I walked back over to the other side of the tree, sat down and put my bag of Recess Peanut Butter Cups next to the bag of Snickers. I opened the small box to see a stack of little folded pieces of paper. We had put the most recent wishes at the bottom of the stack, so all I had to do was start from the top. The first few wishes made me laugh. I had written I wish I had enough money for an iPod and I wish that I will get into my #1 college. Jeremy had wished for the perfect summer after graduation and to see his older brother graduate from the Air Force Academy―both of his came true. I kept reading the rest of the wishes and noticed that as the years went by, some of Jeremy's wishes sounded more like fantasies.

After we graduated from college, Jeremy would talk a lot about starting a new life, moving to a new place and doing whatever he wanted to do. He had this romanticized view on life and the capabilities of humans. He and I both weren't satisfied with our mediocre lives we lived in our small town underneath our parents' thumbs, but unlike Jeremy, I didn't think that taking a risk like leaving town and starting all over was worth it. I got to the last wish he had written the year before and almost didn't want to open it. If I kept it closed without taking a peak as to what it said, it might have been as if our Halloween traditions had never come to an end. But again, I heard a voice inside me that told me to open the slip of paper and read it.

Almost immediately after I read the words written in Jeremy's handwriting, straight but wispy letters, I began to cry. Never in a million years did I expect to read such a wish:

I wish that Alice won't ever feel alone even after I'm gone.

It was haunting, to say the least, that Jeremy had written that as his last wish the Halloween before he died. It was almost as if he knew that something was going to happen, something that would break up our partnership. I put his last piece of paper on my knee then took the one I had written earlier that night out of my pocket. It was ironic, the things that Jeremy and I would do; sometimes we did things that twins do, sensing each other's emotions and behaving similarly, on the same wavelength. I looked at my wish, wiping my tears dry: I wish that Jeremy knew how much I missed him. And in classic Jeremy fashion, anticipating things to happen is a cosmic way, I saw what he had written on the back of his last wish: For Halloween 2009: Alice, I know.

All of a sudden, I started laughing quietly to myself. We had been through so much together that I should've known even if we were ever apart, nothing could separate us. “Things work in mysterious ways,” as Jeremy would often tell me, “you should know, Miss Supernatural Queen.” I would roll my eyes and playfully punch him in the arm when he told this to me, but it wasn't until that first Halloween without him that I really experienced what I had read so much about.

I had no idea how the bag of Recess Peanut Butter Cups appeared by the tree that Jeremy and I would sit under on Halloween night. No one was around and no one knew of our secret tradition. I couldn't explain his last wish he wrote down in 2008, and I definitely know why he wrote on the back of that wish, addressing it to me. Jeremy was special, to say the very least.

I set out on Halloween night afraid of dishonoring traditions I had with my best friend for life. It was such a struggle to go on and do our things without him by my side, but to forget our things and not continue them would be even worse. I put away all our wishes back into the box and reburied it beneath the old oak tree. I tore open my bag of candy and ate about six Recess Peanut Butter Cups, with Jeremy's bag of Snickers sitting next to me. When I finally left the park early in the morning on November 1, I left the bag of candy under the tree, but I took with me a new understanding of my friendship with Jeremy. He might not be walking beside me every step of the way anymore, but he's always watching over me, wherever I am. And every Halloween, we'll have our showing of It's The Great Pumpkin, Charlie Brown, our exchange of Snickers for Recess Peanut Butter Cups, and new wishes will always be made.

Forgotten beauty

Listen to the lonely dessert
It will whisper to you the secrets you long to hear
In the dark of the night
So still and silent
Confidential it will be
With the wanderer who takes a moment
To lend an ear
To give appreciation
To a forgotten beauty

Supernatural: Convincing the brothers

Continuation of the Supernatural fic.

Dean grunted. “Well educated? You look like you're thirteen.”

Kim glared at him. “And you look like you're thirty-five,” she retorted.

Without warning, Sam burst out in laughter, bending over and covering his mouth. He knew that Dean's age was a touchy subject―since he was no longer in the “prime of his youth”―so he always took pleasure whenever he or someone else would bring up his age. Sam looked back up to find Dean's angered eyes staring at him.

Sam cleared his throat, “Sorry,” he said.

Annoyed, Dean snapped his head back to face Kim. “Okay. I've had about enough of this, and enough of your smart-ass comments,” he said, pointing at Kim. “What the hell are you doing here?”

“Fine,” she mumbled, picking at her jeans. There was a tear just above her knee that she had been fiddling with for some time, making the hole bigger than it needed to be. “I came here to help you,” she answered.

Dean scoffed, raising his eyebrows. “Help us? How can you help us?” He tucked his hands into his jacket pocket, cocking his head to side, waiting for her reply. The last thing he needed was help from some teenage girl.

“I'm what you call a...a, um, a hunter historian,” Kim said.

“A hunter historian?” Sam repeated, not familiar with that term. For a moment he thought that Kim was making that term up. He had been hunting for years, and to not know something like that confused him.

Kim shrugged her shoulders. “You can also call me a hunter's aid.”

“What's that?” Dean asked.

She dropped her head, frustrated. “It's a person that aids hunters, duh.” Kim looked over at Sam, and asked, “Does he always ask stupid questions like this?”

“Yeah, sometimes,” he answered, only to receive another glare from Dean. “You know some stuff about hunting?” Sam asked, disregarding the heavy stares coming from his brother.

Kim smirked, “I know a lot more than just 'some stuff' Sam,” she corrected him.

Dean took his hands out of his pockets and crossed them over his chest, standing up straight. “So you a hunter?” He looked over the short, dark haired girl. She couldn't have been taller than five-three, of Asian descent, maybe with some Mexican mixed in there. Kim didn't look physically strong so it was easy for Dean to doubt the fact that she could be a hunter.

“I've gone toe-to-toe with some demons before,” she nodded.

“Oh, really?” Dean asked skeptically.

Kim rolled her eyes, ignoring the badgering Winchester brother to her right. “But I specialize in the history of everything supernatural,” she told them. “I know everything there is to know: about every culture, every continent, past lifetimes, the whole shebang. And if I don't, I have ways of finding out.”

“Wow, do you have a life?” Dean jeered.

She turned to Dean. “This coming from the guy that's spent more than half his life tagging along his dad, slaying vampires, chasing ghosts, and fighting demons just for the hell of it?” Kim watched as Dean was about to open his mouth, but quickly stopped himself before saying anything. “Yeah, exactly. We're all a little crazy. But you're right, I don't really have a life, at least not a normal one. But then, would I really want a normal life an of eighteen-year-old? No, I've made this my priority. I know what I do, and I do it well.”

The brothers exchanged looks. There was a softness in Sam's eyes―almost sympathetic―while he listened to Kim talk about her estranged teenage life. His first impression of Kim was like Dean's: skeptical. To find a girl in their motel room late at night (or rather, early morning) talking about Yellow Eyes and hunting would cause suspicion for any other hunter out there. Yet as she explained herself, Sam couldn't help but form some kind of trust toward her. Not just anybody would know about Yellow Eyes, or have the skill to find the somewhat untraceable Winchester brothers. So there had to be some kind of truth to what Kim was telling them.

Dean, on the other hand, was still apprehensive about Kim. It was hard for him to open up to people and have faith in the every day person―especially because you could never tell if there was a demon controlling that person inside or not. His arms were still crossed, brow narrowed, but although he wanted to throw the girl out and forget this little encounter happened, he already knew that Sam would object.

“Okay,” Sam nodded. “So you want to help us with our cases?”

“Exactly,” she agreed. “I can give you the information you need for any kind of being. How to find it, what makes it tick, and how to send it back to the pit where it belongs.”

Dean smirked. “Well we already got Sammy for that job and―”

“But I'd happily give up that position,” Sam interjected, sitting down on one of the beds. “What?” he asked, looking up at his brother. “I don't exactly enjoy being your information gopher.”

Feeling that he was being ganged up on, Dean got down to the serious question. “Okay. So then what do you want from us?”

Kim sat up straight and stopped picking at her jeans, then placed her hands in her lap. “You know, just let me go with you guys.”

“Go with us?” Dean repeated. “Like steady? Oh, I don't know Kim, we just met, it's a little too soon,” he teased. Kim rolled her eyes while Sam looked at Dean, annoyed.

“That's not what she meant,” Sam pointed out.

Dean widened his eyes, nodding. “I know that! Are you crazy?” He turned to Kim. “You want us to let you tag along with us, is that what you're saying?”

She nodded, “Yeah.”

He threw up his hands and began pacing around the room. “Yeah, right. Like that's gonna happen. We are not gonna babysit some girl while we are doing our job,” he said, looking down at Kim. “Saving the world fucking world!”

“Dean!” Sam yelled.

Kim chortled, somewhat offensively. “Oh, yes, because that plan of yours has been working.”

Dean let out a deep breath very slowly. “You know, you really gotta find that off button of yours.”

Sam stood up, taking a few steps towards Dean. “Dean, you need to calm down.”

“No, I don't,” he said to Sam. “Sorry, kid, it's just not gonna happen. Let's just pretend that what you've been telling us is true, and you're legit. And let's pretend that we were to actually let you help us...I mean, why do you have to go with us?” he asked. Then all of a sudden his face lit up like a light bulb, recharged. “Couldn't we just have some control base for you to stay at like in all those movies? Like in Armageddon.” he suggested.

Both Sam and Kim weren't following Dean's thought process. Dean was known for using pop culture analogies and references, especially about movies and rock bands. Sam often wondered how Dean's mind worked, and if it ran primarily like Bond movies with a Zeppelin soundtrack.

“What?” Sam asked.

“You know,” Dean started, “how Billy Bob was back at NASA and Bruce and Ben went up tot he asteroid and kicked ass! Huh? Doesn't that sound like it could work?” he asked, authentically enthused by his suggestion. “You could be Billy Bob,” he pointed to Kim, “and we could be Bruce and Ben. Granted, I get to be Bruce, because he's more badass. But hey, you end up with Liv Tyler.” He grinned.

Sam rolled his eyes, “Really, Dean?”

“Oh, come on, Sam,” he whined. “You can't really be thinking about letting her go with us? Are you?”

The answer Dean was looking for was obvious. A simple “no” would put a happy smile on Dean's face in a second. But Sam, being Sam―and the reasonable, level-headed brother―didn't see things the way Dean did.

Sam let out a deep breath and dropped his head. He scratched his head for a moment, looking over at Kim. Eventually, he turned to Dean and said, “Yeah, Dean, I think it'll be all right?”

“What?” Dean exclaimed.

“See,” Kim smiled. “Listen to Sam. He's the smart one.”

Dean snapped around to Kim. “You're pushing it,” he warned, pointing his finger at her.

She bit her lip. “Oh, yeah. Off button, got it.”

“Sam,” Dean looked at his brother. “Are you seriously considering letting her go with us?”

“Yes, I am,” he answered. There wasn't a playful or teasing tone to Sam's voice, and that scared Dean.

“Come here,” Dean said, pulling his brother toward the door, away from Kim, who was still seated at the small table by the window. “What if she's not being honest with us? What if she's lying and all this is just some front?”

“If I was going to do anything to you guys,” Kim interrupted, “I would've done it already.”

Sam nodded. “That's true, Dean. Look,” his voice was hushed. “What is one of the hardest parts about this job?”

Dean grinned. “Finding a motel with soft pillow.”

“Dean.”

He sighed. “Getting people to believe us about what we do,” Dean answered seriously.

“Exactly.” Sam nodded. “And you'll just be another hypocrite if you don't trust her.”

“But Sam―”

“Dean,” Sam cut him off. “If what she said is true, then I think she can really help us out. Plus, she knew who we were, about what's happened to us. And she knew Yellow Eyes. That's something you can just read about in some book,” he pointed out. “We rarely get offered any help, so I think we should take it this time.”

Frustrated that he wasn't getting his way, Dean pouted like a baby. “Leave it to you to be the sensible one,” he grumbled, walking back over to Kim. “Fine, you can come with us,” he said. “But you've gotta hold your own, you got that?”

“Yes sir, Captain Dean.” Kim stood up and held her hand to her forehead, saluting Dean as he stood there, brooding.

Sam laughed, walking over to sit with Kim at the table. “You're gonna be a handful, aren't you?”

Kim shrugged. “Maybe. Probably, most of the time, yeah,” she smiled.

Dean was sprawled across the bed, his hands under his head. “Oh, goody.”

It was such an odd way to end a case: finding a girl, claiming to know about hunting and demons, only to have her join Sam and Dean on their trek across the country. In the business of demon hunting, it was advised to always expect the unexpected. And this unlikely team of three was not expected at all.

Faith is power

Last night my internet wasn't working so I couldn't post yesterdays entry. So I'll post both yesterday and today's entries today.

For October 28, 2009:

The best part about believing is knowing the lies.
It's not the deception or suspicious thought
that simmer in one's mind,
or the anxiety of getting caught if the truth is revealed.
Dodging those honest questions is just a matter of awareness.
Know who to speak to and what to say
and how to maneuver your way out of a tight situation.
Creative is the mind that conjures the best reason,
the most believable excuse,
but foolish is that same mind that feels invincible.
No one is safe from the lies they lead.
But the one that still has faith,
regardless of those elaborate tales inflated out of jealousy,
fear, rage, amusement,
that person holds power over the rest.
Power and control to disregard any kind of distraction
that would interfere with what is most important:
faith and hope.

Music In Common

This a continuation of yesterday's entry.

“Hey.”

Logan heard a muffled voice through the melodic sound of Scorpions' “Always Somewhere” flowing through his headphones. It startled him for a moment, since he rarely ever interacted with anyone on his zen-trips to the park.

“Um, hi,” he said, sliding his headphones off his head, leaving it around his neck.

“Scorpions?” she said. She looked to be in her late twenties, dressed in jeans and a green tank top. She had on lots of necklaces looped around her neck, some pearls―all fake, though―some chains with pendants. She decorated her arms and fingers with bracelets and rings, most of them sparkled in the sun. She also sported black and silver high heels.


He nodded, “Yeah, you like the Scorpions?”

“Oh, hell yeah,” she answered with enthusiasm, swinging her bag off her shoulder. The black canvas tote was decked out in buttons with insignia's of well-known rock bands, two of which hailed the Scorpions' logo. “I've always thought that European bands do better justice to rock than Americans.”

Logan laughed briefly. “You have a point. But there's still some good quality rock that's come out of America,” he said.

“The girl, who was now sitting next to Logan, a cigarette wedged between her fingers, grinned. I have a feeling that you could go on about this. You know a lot about music, don't you?”

Flattered, Logan smiled. It was true, that he did pride himself in the knowledge of music he had acquired since childhood. It wasn't so much his expertise, but it was his passion. “Um, yeah, I know some stuff,” he answered modestly.

“I'm sure you do.”

When Logan looked over at the girl, she had this Cheshire-grin smeared across her face. From previous experience, her comment had a certain connotation that Logan thought to be a little inappropriate, considering that they just met. The two kept looking at each other until she eventually burst out in laughter.

“I meant that in a completely non-sexual way, just so you know,” she reassured him. “I could tell that's what you were thinking about,” she teased.

“Yeah, sorry,” Logan said, embarrassed. “I just didn't...but I mean...”

“Don't worry,” she said, “it's cool.” They exchanged smiles. “I'm Carly.” She stuck out her hand.

“Logan.” He shook her hand was surprised―no, impressed―at how strong her grip was. He looked down at their hands and widened his eyes.

Carly nodded, letting go of his hand. “I know, I've got a dude's grip,” she said. “I kinda need it in my business, so that people take me seriously.”

“What do you mean?” he asked.

She took a long drag from her cigarette, as if was the last thing she would ever enjoy in her life. “Well,” she blew the smoke out of her mouth, “I write for the Hamilton Weekly, and I started out a young age. So that was one thing I needed to overcome: my age. Secondly, I don't exactly have the style of a journalist, you know?” She gestured to her casual, yet retro ensemble. “Nor do I have healthy habits.”

“I would just call you an individual,” Logan offered.

Carly smiled, nodding. “I know, right?” She laughed. “Well, anyways, I usually take this route back to work during my breaks, and I've seen you sitting here a couple of times before.”

“Really?”

A big moving truck stormed down the street, causing a raucous and preventing Carly to respond to Logan. Both watched the bright yellow and orange truck maneuver its way down the street, chugging along with the slow mid-day traffic. This gave Carly some time to smoke her cigarette, but once it passed she picked up the conversation.

“Yep. You're always listening to music,” she said, gesturing to the headphones wrapped around his neck. “So I figured I might as well find out what you're listening to.”

He taped his black iPod he was still holding in his hand a few times. “Yeah, I've pretty much always got music playing. It's what keeps me sane.”

“I hear you,” Carly agreed. “It's like, there's so many things in this world that are totally shitty, but having music helps you make it through the day.” She paused, then grinned. “That sounded deep, didn't it?” she laughed.

Logan nodded. He could tell that this girl had a certain spirit about her. She liked to get out there and enjoy life. That, he respected, almost envied. “Yeah, actually it did.”

“I know, but I can't take credit for that. A friend of mine actually told me that a long time ago,” she admitted. “You kind of remind me of her, with the whole zen-meditation-music-listening thing,” she smiled.

“Cool,” he nodded.

Carly took a minute and looked him over. It looked as if she was examining him, his features, the way he sat, every little detail and categorizing it in her brain. She had this look on her face that seemed as if she was conjuring up some scheme in her mind.

“Interesting...” she said softly to herself, not loud enough for Logan to understand.

He looked at her, “What?”

Carly shook her head. “Oh, it's nothing. Just...thinking about that friend of mine.” She smiled all of a sudden. “You know, you should come hang out with us.”

A little taken a back, Logan didn't respond to her suggestion. He didn't usually get invited to join people he just met, hell, who did? He waited for her to elaborate, assuming that she would.

“We,” she began, “get together ever week, usually on Friday nights, and just hang out. Have some drinks, catch up, you know. I think you'd really like it,” she told him. “It's totally casual.”

Logan pressed his lips together before he answered her. To his knowledge he didn't have any plans for Friday night, and Carly seemed nice―and safe―that he agreed to her offer. “Sure, that sound good.”

Carly did a little dance while sitting. “Great, here's my number,” she said. She took out a piece of paper from her purse and wrote down a few numbers then handed it over to Logan. “Just call or text me and I'll give you directions. And if you decide you don't want to, that's totally fine too, no pressure.” She stood up and dusted off her jeans. “Of course, I do know where you sit in the park,” she said.

Logan laughed, folding the piece of paper and slipping it into his pocket. “Good point.”

“Well, I gotta get back to work. Those articles aren't gonna write themselves, unfortunately,” she said. Carly put out her cigarette with the bottom of her heel and put the small bud back into her pocket. “See ya, Logan.”

“Bye,” he said, nodding to her as she turned around.

Before she could take a few steps away, she turned back to face Logan. “Hey,” she called to him, making him look up at her. “Just wondering, how old are you?” she asked.

Logan paused for a moment, then said, “Twenty-three.”

Carly bit her lip. After a second or two she smiled. “Perfect,” she said, then turned to walk back down the street.

As he watched her disappear around the corner, Logan wasn't quite to sure of what to make of that encounter with Carly. It was somewhat random, how she just walked up to him and started talking to him about music. He also wondered why she asked for his age right before she left. To be honest, Logan was really curious about the entire situation, and was considering calling Carly about hanging out with her friends. It was only Tuesday, so he still had a few days to make his final decision. In the meantime, he pressed play on iPod, positioned his headphones back on his head, and let the music fill him.

Observation and meditation

He had been plugged in since nine-thirty that morning, making use of the five-hour battery life of his iPod. He still had about an hour-and-a-half left until the continual music pouring into his ears would fade away and become silence. Whenever Logan could, he had his headphones streaming music through them, comfortably placed on his head. Music, as he had described it dozens of times to anyone who would listen, was the poetry of the soul.

Logan had been sitting on a brick wall at the edge of the city park since The Grateful Dead cover band started their jam session that morning. They had already played through The Dead's greatest hits, their normal set up they did each week. It became a habit of Logan's to sit and listen to the first part of their session when he first started venturing to the park a few months ago. Then, after a while, he would relocate to the farther end of the park, where a nice, red brick wall was constructed, bordering the property.

Lots of people occupied the brick wall during the day, transitioning between point A and point B, hungry workers on their lunch break, or relax-seeking individuals looking to find some kind of haven at a shady park. For Logan, he just liked to people watch. It intrigued him, from a young age, to sit on the sidelines and just observe the environment around him. He kept his music playing the whole time, as well, when on the off-chance that it would happen, the song playing would match up with the people and things he would see. Sometimes it would turn out like a game, trying to fit the song with the characters walking by, wondering what each person was thinking or where they were headed. It was the mystery of the human species that kept Logan returning to his wall.

Supernatural: Introductions

So this is kinda my version of a Supernatural fanfic. I love the show, and had this idea in my head for a long time. Part of my desire to write a Supernatural fic was to write a GOOD female character: one that wasn't a bitch or a slut. Or both. If you guys don't watch the show, then that's cool, I don't think you necessarily need to have watched all of it to get what the story is about.

Supernatural: Introductions

With a strong push of the motel door, Dean swaggered into the room, dragging the heels of his feet into the floor, Sam following a few steps behind. The room was dark, with only the beam of light from the street lamp shinning through the doorway. The Winchester brothers had become accustomed to bouncing around from crappy motel to the next crappy motel since they were young. At the time, it was like an adventure; they didn't realize the lifestyle they used to fill their imagination would eventually become their future, especially for Sam. Sam hadn't always meshed well with his dad, John, or his brother. As he got older he formed his own dreams and future plans that didn't involve continuing the family business. Dean, on the other hand, was born to take after his father, not only in his choice of music and scruffy, bad boy look, but also in his determination to rid the world of demons and monsters.

Dean kept walking past the light switch, further into the room. “Hey, Sammy, turn on the light.”

Sam scoffed. “Of course, your highness,” he replied. He stepped over and flipped the little plastic lever and the florescent light flickered on.

“I was wondering when you two were gonna be back,” a voice said.
Both Dean and Sam sharply turned to face the small round table near the window, the direction that the unfamiliar voice was coming from.

Dean's hand went straight for the gun wedged in the back of his pants. “What the―”

“I mean, I left the cemetery over two hours ago, and I assumed that you guys wouldn't be too far behind me,” the girl said. She sat with her feet on top of the table, worn Chuck Taylors sticking out at the bottom of her jeans. She rested her hands on her stomach―she was completely calm.

“How did you get in here?” Sam stood in a readied position, prepared to counteract the girl if she made any sudden movements.

“And who the hell are you?” Dean asked loudly, gripping his pistol.

I guess you guys must have stopped for some drinks or something,” she concluded, ignoring both of their questions entirely. “But two hours? Really? Come on, you guys were just burning remains, not like it was ol' Yellow Eyes.”

Sam stood straighter, his full attention on the girl in front of him. “What did you say?”

She turned to Sam, “Yellow Eyes,” she repeated.

“Hey!” Dean shouted. The girl quickly looked at Dean and saw him holding his pistol tightly in his hand, his finger curled around the trigger. “I asked you a question. Who the hell are you?”

“Geez, Dean, someone's a little hostile. You didn't the number of some chick at the bar, I'm guessing,” she said.

Dean jerked his head back. “How do you know my name?” he asked.

She shrugged, “Who doesn't know your name in this business?”

“This business,” Sam repeated. “What business?”

The girl swung her legs off the table and sat up straight, crossing her arms over her chest. “Damn, you guys ask a crapload of questions,” she grumbled, clearly annoyed.

“And you have yet to answer any of those questions,” Dean pointed out. “So I'm just gonna have to ask you again: who the hell are you?”

It was clear that Dean was the sort of guy who wanted answers fast, no time to waste on anything. It was even worse when he felt threatened and at a loss of control of the situation. Sam, who was still standing closest to the door kept looking back and forth between his brother and the girl. When she mentioned Yellow Eyes―the demon that killed both his parents and his girlfriend, a topic not known to the everyday person―Sam got the feeling that she was one of them.

She stared at Dean for a moment, then brushed her bangs out of her face. “My name's Kim Takara.”

Dean smiled. “Well, Kim Takara, it was great of you to stop by, but I'm afraid it's time for you to leave now.” He cocked his gun and pointed it straight at Kim.

“Holy shit!” she gasped.

“Dean! Wait!” Sam yelled, holding up his hands.

“Wait?” he looked back at Sam, “What do you mean, wait?”

Sam bit his lip, then said, “She knew who Yellow Eyes was.”

“So?”

“So. That means she's just not a normal person...” he trailed off, hoping that Dean would understand what he meant.

Dean lowered his gun and thought for a moment. If she wasn't a normal person, then what was she, he thought. Then upon coming to a conclusion, his eyes widened and raised his gun back up. “Only demons would know who Yellow Eyes was.”

“Whoa,” she said, holding her hands up in front of her face. “You think that I'm a demon?”

Dean nodded. “Uh, yeah, I do.”

“Dean!” Sam stepped forward, holding his hand out toward Dean, keeping his eye on the pistol.

“Wait, a demon,” Kim said, “you mean a demon that could do...this.” She closed her eyes tightly and sat motionlessly in the chair.

Sam stood next to Dean, and they both watched her closely. They knew what would happen next once she opened her eyes. They would see black, soulless, demon eyes, the kind that haunted their dreams for years. With reflexes like a cat, Dean was ready to pull the trigger at any moment.

In one quick second, Kim's eyes opened, and the brothers caught their breath. “Rawr!” The girl growled like a cartoon lion, her eyes perfectly normal like they had been before―dark brown.

“Goddamn it!” Dean shouted, letting out a deep sigh as he lowered his pistol.

Sam dropped his head down with relief, wiping his face with his hand.

Kim was laughing to herself, clutching her stomach. “Come on, that was funny. Because I'm not really...with the...” she gestured to her eyes, “and you guys...” Suddenly she stopped and cleared her throat. “Never mind.”

Rolling his eyes, Dean put his gun back into the back of his pants. “Great, she's got a sense of humor,” he muttered.

“Some people say it's my charming wit,” Kim grinned.

“Really?” Dean said, looking over at the girl. “Because I just think it's annoying.”

Kim pressed her lips together, nodding her head. “I'll take note of that,” she said.

“Dean,” Sam said.

“What?” he asked defensively. “This girl just punked us into faking that she was a demon, as if Ashton was gonna pop out from underneath the bed or something.”

Kim raised one eyebrow. “That's actually a really scary thought.”

“Okay, but seriously,” Dean began, “now that we know you're not a demon, you're really gonna have to start answering some of our questions. Like how the hell you got in here.”

Sam nodded. “And how you know Yellow Eyes.”

Kim pointed to the front door. “Well it's pretty easy when you guys don't lock the door,” she told them. “I thought I'd have to pick it or see if the window was cracked. But, nope, you guys made it real easy for me. All I had to do was turn the knob and voilà.” She smiled.

Dean snapped around to face Sam. “I thought you locked it when we left.”

Sam thought, a quizzical look on his face. He shrugged sheepishly. “I guess I forgot.”

“Nice,” Dean glared. “But it was locked when we came back.”

“Duh,” Kim said. “I locked it. I didn't want some bad guy or criminal coming in while I was here,” she chuckled.

Dean tilted his head. “You know, you're kind of a smart-ass.”

Kim casually shrugged away that insult. “Yeah, I know. One of my many personality quirks.”

“Oh, I'm sure you have many,” Dean added, exchanging sarcastic smiles with Kim.

Sam cleared his throat, gaining back their attention to what was really important. “Okay, so we know you're name and how you got here. But how do you know who Yellow Eyes was?”

Kim leaned forward in her seat. “I think the better questions is why do I know Yellow Eyes.”

Sam exchanged a curious look with Dean. This girl had a way with words, she was smart. “I'll right,” he said, nodding, “I'll bite. Why do you know Yellow Eyes?”

“You want the truth?” she asked them. They both looked at her, very attentively. “He was my piano teacher,” she answered. “He's very musically inclined.”

Dean snickered, shaking his head. “There's that smart-ass sense of humor again.”

“I know, sorry about that. I haven't found the ON/OFF switch for it yet,” she said.

Sam chuckled, rubbing his temple. Kim was basically a mini-Dean, with her nonstop sarcastic humor and her obvious preference to always have the last say. “Okay. Kim, can I call you Kim?”

“As long as I can call you Sam.”

“All right, Kim. Honestly, how do you know Yellow Eyes. We,” he said, looking up at Dean, “we really need to know.”

Kim took a deep breath in, and as she did so, her posture changed. She sat up straight in her chair and looked completely serious. “I had a run-in with him when I was younger, when I was six,” she said. “That was the one and only time I ever saw him, but, he sure did leave a lasting impression. Granted his visit wasn't as personal as his visits to you guys.”

Sam narrowed his eyes. “You know about us?”

She scoffed, as if that question was just a joke. “Who doesn't know about the two of you? Who doesn't know about the Winchester legacy?” She looked over at Dean, “You were the first person to vacation down in Hell and come back without a tan. Although you did gain some new angel poker buddies.” Then she looked at Sam. “And Sam, you were the chosen demon baby-puppet for Yellow Eyes that could see the future and predict all kinds of misfortune.”

“Wow.” Dean looked genuinely shocked.

“What can I say? I'm very well-educated,” Kim said.

There was no doubt in Sam or Dean's mind that Kim was different than most people. But to say that she was a hunter like them, it was too early to tell. She could've just been a supernatural-junkie that read up on the brothers and had great research talent. It was a little strange, however, that she suddenly appeared in their motel room, oozing with all this information about their lives and their job. The questions in the brother's minds were: What was she doing there? How did she find them? And what did she want from them?

Avoid At All Cost

Sorry today's piece is so short. I'll try to write something longer in the days to come.

The silence between us was defeaning. Neither of us knew what to say, so we just sat there, for what seemed like hours. Isaac looked like a rock, his chest barely even rising and falling when he breathed. His eyes were focused on the city lights out in the distance, a small patch of glittering specs against the dark valley landscape. Every so often I glanced over at him, preparing to spark the conversation that was inevitable and seriously prolonged. Yet each time I took that deep breath in, ready to open my mouth, words never left my lips, but silence just followed the stillness from before.

I never imagined that it would be so hard to say goodbye to him. We grew up together and became each other's confidant―he was the only one who knew everything about me. It was easy, so effortless, for me to talk to Isaac, and he never held anything back from me either. Sometimes we had so much to tell each other, we'd overlap one another, babbling on and on for hours. Although, we'd never talk about anything of utter importance, just every day life, and some meaningless topics that held our attention for a few minutes before we moved on to another subject of discussion. It was ironic: now that we had something important to talk about, neither of us wanted to say anything.

Keep it quiet

“You know, they only have to know what you want to tell them,” he said, leaning close to her so that she could hear his hushed voice.

Her eyes watched the group of twenty-somethings leave the bar, laughing and talking as they passed through the doors. She missed those days when she, too, would've been walking alongside a group of friends, laughing and enjoying the simplicity of life. She sighed, “I know,” she replied, turning to look at Cooper.

“Don't beat yourself up over it, though.” He put his hand on her knee and squeezed it. “Whatever you decide to do, Bethy, is fine.”

It was moments like this that Beth had truly wished Cooper was her brother. He understood her, from the time they became friends in elementary school, and their relationship had never faded since then. Cooper looked after her―her parents definitely didn't―as if she was his own.

Beth looked at him and smiled.

Cooper smiled after a moment, then patted her knee and removed his hand. “I'll see you back at the house,” he said. With a nod of the head, gesturing to follow the group that just left, Beth slid off the stool and maneuvered her way out of the bar to find the lively gang of young adults. Cooper turned back to his drink, clutched it in his hand, and took a swig.

Lack of Life

Narrative
Female, 32-years-old

After a long day at work, all I wanted to do was go home, have some dinner, take a long, hot shower, and maybe have a glass of wine and fall asleep with my dog at my feet. Working in retail for over seven years had taken a toll on me, in more ways than one. I was always moody, every single night, after dealing with impatient and rude customers for nine hours a day. I was physically drained, having to run back and forth across the floor, collecting garments placed in the wrong section by lazy and inconsiderate people. And I was most of the time very disappointed in myself for not having the guts to quit that horrid job I no longer found excitement at. My job was embedded in my everyday routine that I was afraid if I were to leave, I wouldn't find anything else to fill that empty spot that would open up in my life. This job I'd have for so long seemed to suck all the energy out of me that I barely even went out with friends anymore. I didn't go to the movies, or go bowling on the weekends. I never took drives anywhere either. And I missed that. I missed actually having a life. I missed living. So I decided that I was going to start living again.

Homemade Shrine

It was a shrine of accomplishments and failures,
moments caught and preserved to last a lifetime.
I passed by it everyday,
all the time,
but never really stopped to take in
all of its intricate details.
The same faces repeated across its surface.
Most were happy, celebratory expressions,
a few unpleasant or lacking emotion.
The faces aged,
like a yearbook collection, showing the changes and maturity.
Clips of newspaper articles,
reminders,
recipes and personal messages
were scattered about like army men in a war-zone.
Each had its place, its responsibility, and purpose.
At its core
it is simply a refrigerator,
masked with personality from our lives.
But with time it has morphed into a memorial,
to remind us of the every day life
and its happiness in its simplicity.

Nonbeliever

Jamika: Thanks for being my first follower!! :) It's so hard for me to write such short little pieces. I'm usually writing these while I'm at a school in between classes or waiting to get picked up, so they aren't that long. It's funny you asked that, about writing stories in Hawai`i. Like I might've mentioned, the story I started over the summer was the first one I ever based in Hawai`i. It's weird, right? That you don't usually write things based in the place you're from. I think it's weird. Haha. But I mean, it definitely is easier to picture things in my head and have actual places to write about. And you know, I just wrote some more for that story I was writing over the summer. So I'll probably post another chapter up on fictionpress later this week and I'll let you know so you can check it out and tell me what you think! :] Cheee!

I am the nonbeliever of happy endings
Fairy tale stories and Prince Charming dreams
never slipped into my subconscious
waking state
The reality of those folklore
is that it isn't real
Just words of fluff
filling the minds of impressionable little boys and girls
too young to distinguish between what is
and what is not
I am the nonbeliever of happy endings
Lowering my expectations level
As to not encounter disappointment
because suffering is
unfortunately
inevitable
I am the nonbeliever of happy endings
And it pains me to be this way

Obviously I was in a half-empty kind of mood when I wrote this today, for several reasons. Now that I reread this, it doesn't make all that much sense. But, it's what I wrote, and it's late soooo, there ya go.

Simplicity at it's finest

Click. Clack. Click.

Donny had been sitting on the floor with his laptop for over three hours. His thighs were sore, from the heat emanating from the bottom of his two year old laptop he bought himself for Christmas, and because he neglected to switch sitting positions in the three hours he was on the floor.

He wanted to make sure that it would be just right, as close to perfect as he could make it. Donny was no wordsmith, which caused him to repeat the process he had become accustomed to: typing and deleting, typing and deleting. His initial idea of writing a letter seemed a lot easier than it was shaping up to be. Why was it so hard for him to just write down what he felt? He knew what he wanted to say, but the trick was saying it in a way that wouldn't sound cliché or too corny.

His letter idea morphed into a rhyming seventh-grade-esque, unoriginal poem, sampling love song lyrics, so he scratched that idea as well. He tried just writing down exactly what he was feeling, but that turned into an essay, complete with an introduction, body, and conclusion. It was hard not to be discouraged and give up on the entire thing.

When Donny thought that it was time to throw in the towel, he looked down at his hand and smiled. On the back of his left hand there was a smiley face drawn in pen, green ink. Seeing that little image on his hand had refueled Donny, like downing three energy drinks. He took a deep breath and typed a few words onto the white document on his computer screen. After a few more clicks, he stopped. He was done. It was that simple.

“Perfect,” he said to himself, rereading his short message over and over in his head.

There, on the screen in front of him was the best thing he had ever written:

Jasmine,

You are the air that I breath.
I love you.
Never forget that.

Aloha kākou!!

This is my new blog where I'll be posting daily pieces of creative fiction/nonfiction. I want to make sure that I'm writing every single day, because any day is a good day to write.

Anything creative is worth writing down.

So, let's begin...

With the many covers and remix versions of Judy Garland's “Somewhere Over The Rainbow” from The Wizard of Oz, she loved Braddah Iz's version the most. She grew up listening to the deep, melodic voices of the local singers that made their names famous in Hawai`i. Israel Kamakawiwa`ole was one of her favorites. Not only was he a talented singer, but also an accomplished musician.

“Somewhere Over The Rainbow” became her song. She learned how to play it on the ukulele, just the way that Iz played it. Her friends thought that was the only thing she could play, because it was all she ever played. But her response was, “It's not the only song I know, just the only one worth playing.” It was her inspirational tune, the track she'd play when she needed to relax, or just a mix of words and music to fill her ears. In the past few months, however, it became the song she listened to that would relieve her of the stress and problems that were going on at home. She was only eighteen years old, the age when life was suppose to be filled with friends, experiencing new things, and growing into the person that she wanted to be. But life had taken a sharp turn and nothing was going right in her life.

It was almost sundown and she had been sitting on the hood of her car for over an hour, looking out at the ocean at Ka`ena Point. Driving out to Wai`anae whenever she needed to be alone became a ritual of escape. It was the farthest place on the island away from her home, and lately all she'd been feeling was the need to get away.

It seemed that she had been starting to become very distant from the normalcy of her life. Everyone began to notice it in her behavior, her lack of energy, and most importantly: that she stopped singing and playing her ukulele. Hoku, without music, wasn't Hoku at all.

She knew that things had to change, if she ever wanted to be happy again. It was difficult, without any support from her anger-driven family members, or her self-absorbed friends that had no time for anyone but themselves, but it was time to move on.

She exhaled deeply, closing her eyes as she breathed out slowly. When she reopened them, the sun was closer to the horizon. With one slide off the hood, she walked over and opened the backseat door, grabbing her ukulele with her left hand. Shutting the door behind her, she kept the instrument tight her in fist as she walked out toward the beach. She found a nice spot about halfway down the sand and sat down, crossing her legs. She cradled the neck in her left hand, lightly placing her fingertips across the strings and frets. Her right hand was loose, hovering over the bottom half of the ukulele, then she began to strum.