Simplicity???

7 months... wow.

This is just a little urge I have to write something, and I am out of my creative bliss, so bear with me, whoever you are.

Nothing is ever simple, is it? Even simplicity itself is complicated in its own way. This should all be so simple, and, somehow, it isn't. I was supposed to stop loving you a long time ago. Is what I feel now a wave of fond memories? Just a remnant, a ghost? Or is it a rebirth of something that died when our lives changed. Is it coming back? I don't think I want it to. I'm happy with the way my life is, though now I have a strange, inconsistent urge for it to be something else. Maybe what I'm trying to say is that I, very unintentionally, miss you.

Nevermind

Alexis

I made it through the ceremony without a tear shed. I made it through the after-party with hardly a tear shed.

I sat, being squashed between friends, on a lumpy couch a room away from the loud music and ecstatic dancers. Laughter bubbled in my throat as we merrily rough-housed on the couch. Tears did not even pass through my mind.
A pretend fury towards Bess for her attempt and success at tickling me had me focused in her direction. When I turned back away from her, Alexis was kneeling before my seat with stained eyes. No words had been spoken, I just ceased what I was in the midst of and wrapped her in my arms. Words were and always had been unnecessary since the dawning of our friendship in kindergarten. Her misplaced visit disappeared shortly.
Only when the after-party of our graduation ended did I search for another of Alexis's hugs. This would be a good-bye-and-have-a-good-time-in-Florida hug upon my departure.
As I stepped into a different room, Alexis came bolting up to me and strangled me in one of these routine hugs. When we parted, her eyes had new tears spilling from them. There was a moment that stretched onward as I saw my best friend's beautiful face and watched it grow from that of a rolly-polly toddler to the young woman she is now. In the reflection of her eyes I saw myself do the same. I didn't want to look away and I suddenly knew what all this was. This was our last night on common grounds together and we took a long look at each other, soaking in what we saw and branding ourselves with the memory.
I will never forget the look Alexis gave me, and I know it marks the ending of everything we know and everything we love. I love her more than I could love any sister of mine, for has been more wonderful and more meaningful than a sister. We have grown much closer than sisters, so LYLAS just doesn't cut it anymore.
The tears came and the tears are coming and it is the most painful thing I think I have ever felt. I miss her so much because, though that night is also this night, I know we have lost each other in a dramatic wave of fate and it hurts beyond hurt itself.

The Final Glory

Possessing enough speed to win a race against infinity, a hard bullet hissed past John's head. Another then another, they came wicked and strong. He was consumed in the heart of an endless sphere of burning orange flames, auralized by the mighty thunder of cannons.
Distorted and delirious, his vision swayed to his step. He stumbled across the bitter earth, broke the edge of a hill into fire just in time to behold the falling of his best friend. So painfully in time to see a crimson blood spew from Eric's bust and wash the death toll with another number. Grief ripped through him, its hurt beyond that of a bullet.
John stared across the battle scene with new eyes. The reds were advancing and few in his coat still clung to their lives. It was a horror to which any decent would repulse at. The sight infested his will to live and he suddenly no longer cared. He had a desperate urge to befall the same fate as Eric, tis the only job that seemed to matter to him. After all, is that not truly the job of a solider, to kill then die in his colors?-or so his thoughts rested.
John stepped toward Eric's body and began to kneel. A red stood only feet away and with a crack of his gun emitted a bullet. It struck John's chest and blood trickled from it. He ignored it for a few moments, refusing to feel the pain. He continued to kneel and he touched Eric's blood with his shaking fingertips. Twas still warm.
John rest his head upon Eric's chest and almost expect it to be heaving with breath. Their bloods swam together and he felt a new sense of peace. Slowly the world evaporated before him and he was strangely happy to be nearly dead. Twas an inexplicable feeling, this idea of receiving joy from such a thing, but to loose all care, to see the gates of God flicker before him, it was all a magnificent thing.
John died with a smile etched into his face.

Written For Halloween

The thick, musty air slowed my pace, its stiff body as quiet as death. No tree limbs rustled, no birds squawked, the insects made no song. Silence... sheer, pure silence. It swallowed me, nipped at my soul, gripping me with an undeniable fear. And yet I moved on over the hills. Strangely, no leaves brushed me face and there was no twig on the earth to trip me. It was as though I was destined to walk this land, as though I treaded a well-kempt path, but there was none, only virgin wilderness.
My heart echoed in my chest The air remained cold as ice, the world remained silent, but I could feel that something in the atmosphere had changed. Suddenly, a shrill sound ripped through the fog, damning the silence. My swollen veins slowed the rush of my blood. I knew the sound had come from death itself.
I heard suddenly heard a cruel, heavy panting from behind me. Twas the only sound in existence. Closer, closer, closer still. Slick, damp fur combed over my left arm. I could no longer move forward. I just could not. My mind and lungs grew numb with fear. The panting was only inches from my ear hot and sticky with the stench of blood. Fate gathered me in its hands and then nothing, nothing at all.

letter to Mr. Austin

Mr. Mike Austin,
We have not encountered a situation like that of the first. I fear by this that you consider my way of functioning in that particular situation to be my norm. You must see that my tears did not flow with anxiety, but rage. I have never behaved in such a manner as I did that forlorn September, and I do not intend to repeat my actions.
With that matter covered, I should like to move on to the next. I find my days weary, monotonous even. You brought me an exciting, gripping strand of events. Only when we duel am I entertained, and so it must continue. Lately, having been more agreeable, I fear we may never clash again, knowing each other's personal standing. For this reason, I insist we form a debate. There are so many topics we differ upon. I simply cannot let it go to waste.
I'm quite certain each and every debatable subject would serve useful to our purpose. You may find I am skilled at "arguing," assuming you did not know long ago. I might add that this quality I possess is not influenced by my gender.
I know little of your abilities, as well as the extent of your knowledge. I look forward to finding out.
Sincerely,
Elise

Poor Daddy

Yesterday was my little cousin's First Holy Communion. My parents and I were invited and, nearly against my will, I participated:

The massive church swung like a pendulum before me. I inhaled and stepped forward, facing a world I did not know. Dressed in a prim blouse and with a lace garmet wrapped in my hair, I thought I looked quite the part of a Catholic. I wasn't inclined to make a derogatory statement and I had no interest in being shunned by my surroundings, so I looked the part.
Finally within the walls, I was surrounded by a marble icing on every surface. It's beauty struck me with a surprising force. There were statues of various saints and in the chapel there was a huge, intricate cross with a life-sized Jesus mounted in a classic, graphic style. His muscles had been pried from his body and his ribs carved forward. There was a strange life about it.
Sitting in a velvet dressed pew with the rest of my family, my father was on my right. As we stood to sing a hymn, he noticed how I stared into the distance and my lips were still when I should have been singing. He nudged me and held his book before my face. I waved it away and he tried again. This ritual continued until the song came to an end. With a troubled expression, he turned to me and questioned my apparent displeasure with the singing. "I'm just not in the mood to sing," I replied cooly, and with that the ceremony continued. When the prayed, I kept my head high and said nothing. Daddy placed the warmth of his hand over mine, trying to get me to hold it. I wouldn't even respond. I just stood there, still and cold, staring in another direction. The entire event was filled with little things like that one, where my father was thoroughly perplexed at my lack of spirituality.
When we arrived home, I began to realize he may not know. Slowly I gathered the courage to tell him, and by the time 8:00 struck, I was prepared. "Daddy, can I talk to you about something for a second?" I said, entering the living room. "Of course, sweety," he replied characteristically. "You know that don't believe in God, don't you? "I said, doing my best to peer up at him with innocent eyes. He said nothing, only stared at me for a moment.
He had grown up in an Atheist family and had rebelled all through his childhood, switching between religions. At last he had "found peace with the Christian God," and now he was an ordinary church-goer. His eyes were crossed with an indescribable disappointment. His thoughts rested upon the idea that his only daughter, who was growing up far too fast to begin with, had fallen into the same tragic patterns as his brother, sister, and parents. He wanted me to be his Christian little princess forever, but it just couldn't be that way.
"Why," he finally whispered. "I would rather not go into it for fear of upsetting you. I am far to cynical for my own good." I said, beaming a false beam in his direction. "What often happens is that I will tell something to an ample amount of people and then just assume everyone knows. Often a couple people miss the word. Sorry, Daddy." I said, and left the room, trying to resist the memory of his expression.

I Don't Want Kids

The sun drenched me with warmth as I rocked back and forth in the rigid swing. With each movement, the whole rickety build moaned and shreaked, making me tighten my ears. My rotund baby cousin clutched my thighs to keep from toppling from my lap and he gleefully bubbled and cooed at the motion of the swing. Back and forth I rocked. Back and forth, back and forth, back and forth. I was trapped into rocking, for whenever I ceased, John Paul would shreak with just as harsh a tone as the swings, pounding his fists on me and saying "swing, swing, swing," in his sloshed words until I would finally bend and rock once more.
Sighing a worn and miserable sigh, I turned my vision to more of my cousins. They were older and darting across the lawn in an improvised game of tag. I was intrigued at how every single time someone got tagged, they would immediately accuse the enemy of cheating. Or they would just whine "but I hurt my ankle" or "but I'm a girl" or "but you can run faster than me" and at last conclude that it just wasn't fair. To be honest, I'd have rather been a referee to this bizarre game then rock John Paul on the unhappy swings.
Oklahoma's pale sun slunk below the horizon and I was still rocking. High-pitched mosquitoes twittered around me, searching for my blood. John Paul seemed to be amused by them, as well as immune. Finally I bit my lip in attempt to gather courage and plopped my cousin off of my lap. He screamed and kicked in rage, but I simply stood and walked away. Shortly, he gave up, huffed, and toddled after me, placing his chubby little paw in my hand. As we crossed the dark yard, I couldn't help but wonder how my aunt and uncle did it. How did they take care of this one crazy baby, let alone another two wild children? I decided then that I didn't want any kids.

Those Pale Colors

The sun steps through the glass window, giving this pale little room some more pale color. Ridiculous, nauseating chatter drifts to my corner of the room, pushing its way through my ears, however hard I try to block it out. The dull page flickers away for a moment, revealing a spectacular image of rural Germany. I see a wet grey sheen coating the folded earth. Cuddling in the pocket of this ripple is a town of red roofing, all huddled together to escape the chill of rain.
As for me, I am atop the peak of a tall, round hill, skipping over slick piles of mud that are trying with all their might to be a road. The powerful wind throws frantic raindrops into my face. Ahead, my parents refuse to face defeat by the wind and rain. Like fools, they continue their efforts in battle. How pathetically easy it is for the wind to jerk their umbrellas about, batting them like amusing little toys.
Slowly, I begin to see myself falling behind the group atop this vast hill, and I watch myself toss my ragged umbrella, which is doing me no service, into the wind, letting it soar out of sight, toppling through the skies at the wind's delight. I shake my skin from its cold coat of water and face the bleak sky with impossible joy. I spin 'round and 'round until I can spin no more, until my vision pulses and flows in a dizzy gaze. I am so happy to be here, among the fields of German harvest and the herds of bleating sheep. Anywhere but Oklahoma.
Blinking back into my pale little corner, I sigh with my crushed joy and I hear the echoes of those fantastic times in rainy Germany. For a blissful moment I had been able to re-capture my sense of home, knowing I myself was embedded into that rain, that earth, that red little town. A sense of belonging, a sense of home. My despair came from knowing I had been home for a mere 5 days in my lifetime. And, so my story goes. I live to this day among the idle chatter, the burning gasoline, and the pale colors. I live in Oklahoma.