Hidden

The real me likes to hide. 

I wish she wouldn't, but she feels uncomfortable at times, mostly around new people.  There's something about them that forces her to retreat.  But she's there.

She loves to read, and often judges a book by it's shape.

She's fascinated by ripples in water and the flashing scales of any fish.

She loves the colors green and blue, but detests the color pink. 

She often doesn't know what to do with her hands, and sometimes her face can't seem to relax. 

Sometimes she stutters when she's nervous.

On bad days she avoids mirrors, but most days she doesn't let their taunting bother her.

She likes to smile, and sometimes smiles for no good reason.

She wishes she could climb up trees, and she prefers pens over pencils. 

She loves a good rainstorm, but only when it's warm and accompanied by flashes of light and rages of sound.  And when she hears that first roar of thunder, she grabs a book and finds a nook by a window.

She likes to dance, even though she isn't very good.

She's kind and dependable, and surprisingly talkative. 

She's easily amused, and doesn't need a lot to have fun.  And when she ventures out of her fear, she's fun to be with. 

She only likes to paint her toenails, not her fingernails. 

Her favorite place to be is in a small crevice of salty rocks, so close to the sea that she can taste it and feel the spray of waves as they crash.

She doesn't mind being alone sometimes, but she likes to be with people too.

She drips her emotions on paper and when she bleeds, it comes out as ink.

Sometimes she lets her quiet twin take over.  But sometimes her courage gets the best of her and she kicks the quiet one out.  And then she finally comes up for air, and wonders why she ever stayed hidden for so long. 

Bring it on, Resistance

"There's a secret that real writers know that wannabe writers don't, an the secret is this: It's not the writing part that's hard.  What's hard is sitting down to write. 

What keeps us from sitting down is Resistance."

~ Steve Pressfield

The Dragon's Eye

Meet David.  He's a twenty one year old average college student.  An only child, his mother raised him herself after his father died when he was ten.  He has dark brown hair, green eyes, and a tall frame.  He's somewhat quiet, but strong-willed.  He may not be anything special, but he is fine with who he is.  An average day consists of college and work.  But now college is ending for the summer and David is excited to keep working and to have a fun summer with his friends.  Or so he thought.  One day his mother signed him up for a "special program" for other young adults his age.  She was very vague on the details and there was no way for him to escape it.  The program is at a cabin deep in the woods, with four other people David's age and older mentors who will teach them.  Soon David finds out that he and the others are meant to be dragon brothers, and they were sent to the cabin to learn how to control their new powers that are beginning to develop, and how to interact with the dragons he never knew existed.  And soon David discovers that there is a mystery surrounding his father.  

Will David learn about what really happened to his father?
Will David accept his new life and learn how to use his powers?
Will the dragons accept David and allow him into their lives?
Will David stop those who would like to see dragons extinct?

Broken Open- Cold War Kids

I locked my keys in the car
I'm pleading for some change
The meter treats me like a stranger now
Flashing zeros

I'm juggling a drink too full
While tugging on a leash that you pull
And jogging my memory for
The way to your door

I have been broken open
By my most trusted friend
I was the wild card, you were the safe bet
I've been broken open

I'm up and down that way
It's easier to say that I'm doing okay
Than bother to explain
The water rising

Threw out your crystal ball and your weather vain
Picasso don't pre-meditate he just paint
Tonight it's so easy
To overflow

I have broken open
Was a perfect gentleman
Now I'm smashing champagne, tying cans
Feel like celebrating

I have been broken open
Dug to china with bare hands
When you asked me if I'd like to dance
I've been broken open

Flow over me, flow over, flow
Over flow

It feels so strange to feel good
And when I was the fire you were wood
So when I was petrified
You understood

I have been broken open
This was not my master plan
I was comfortable watching from the stands
I have been broken open

All my edges are exposed
I was once content alone
Now you brought the one that I call home
I've been broken open

Flow over me, flow over, flow

Inky Excuse

I felt like I was being watched. 

I felt like I was being watched so I got off my bed and slowly walked around my room.  No one there.  So I stood still, twirling my pencil in my hand and and trying to stare the source of the feeling into existence. 

With the feeling only slightly pushed away, I sat back on the bed, my pencil going back to the numbers and signs that just didn't register in my mind.  That was when I heard it.

A tiny sound, a sad sound, something small and innocent.  But something about it scared the numbers from my head and the pencil from my hand.  I crossed the room to the source of the cry.  It came from the desk, but nothing there could have made it.  I decided it was all in my head and tried to call the numbers back.  And as I turned, the voice came back. 

"Just going to leave me here all month, are you?" it said.

"What?" Where was it coming from?  The only thing in that direction was a slender black pen resting on a yellow-paged notebook.   I slowly inched closer and let the tip of my finger touch the smooth shell of the pen. 

"That's the first time you've touched me in a month," it said.  Did it really say that?  I didn't know that pens could talk.  But something made me respond.

"I-I've been busy.  I don't have time to-,"

"Don't have time for me?  But you have time for those obnoxious pencils.  I thought you knew better.  Pencils hold you back.  Pens are the only things that make you take risks, make you unafraid.  We used to do a lot together, you know."  It was right.  I thought back on the times I used the pen to write a story or a poem or whatever it was in my mind that was screaming to get out.  It was a release, and I missed it. 

"I know," I sighed.  "And you're right."  I picked up the pen and the paper.  Both felt warm in my hands, felt right.  I curled up in the window, clicked the pen, and let it take over.  And it felt perfect.  The pen was like a bridge for everything that had been clogging my mind to escape by, to be captured on paper and to settle into it's warm fibers.  But that moment wasn't just for me.  It was for both of us.  To really live, the pen needed to bleed. 

School, I'm Having Trouble Taking You Serious

As I sit trapped in my desk with no where to put my legs, all my wandering mind can even fathom focusing on is the feel of sun on my skin, the smell of a good book, and ink flowing from pens.  I desperately want to get up, walk out, and run around with warmth on my back and grass licking at my feet and a book in my hands.  Is that too much to ask?



Inspiration

That feeling comes and makes you try something new...