Freshly Dusted

Hello everyone! I hope you are doing well and getting lots of writing done during quarantine! If you are looking for some writing prompts, be sure to check out this list I made.

Rules:

1. Display the blog award logo in your blog.
2. Thank the blogger(s) who nominated you.
3. Do not forget to link to their blogging website.
4. Answer all the questions they have given you.
5. Nominate 7 to 10 bloggers of your choice.
6. Ask them 7 questions.

Zoe’s questions:
1. What book is the most inspiring to you?

Although it is hard to choose, The Book Thief by Markus Zuzak is honestly one of the greatest books I have ever read. It inspired me to think of history from another perspective, and it showcased the value of both color and words in a phenomenal way. My favorite quote from the book (which Zuzak actually used again in I am the Messenger (another great read)) is: "Sometimes people are beautiful. Not in looks. Not in what they say. Just in what they are."

2. What's your favorite season?

As a resident in Texas, I live for the three weeks of spring that occur between winter and summer. 

3. Vanilla, chocolate, or strawberry ice cream?

Chocolate all the way.

4. What song describes your current mood?

Oooh, this is a tough one, but I would probably have to say "Set Fire to the Rain" by Adele. It is a beautiful combination of hope, dedication, and nostalgia, all of which I am feeling as I finish my high-school graduation. 

5. What's the first thing you want to do when you get out of quarantine?
This one is easy! I want to play and practice softball. I have been playing softball for several years now, and I typically play first base. Last year I also played pitcher, but my skills have been slipping during quarantine.  

6. What would your dream house look like?

It would be relatively small and cozy, with just enough room for me and maybe a pet. I don't know of many specifics, but there would definitely be a large library, a modern kitchen, a good dining table, and several comfortable armchairs where I could curl up with a good book and read. 

7. What is your favorite form of art and why? 

While the obvious answer would be to say writing, that's not actually the truth (shocker, I know). I have always admired musicians (especially those who write their own lyrics), because they are often able to entice all manner of emotions in only a few minutes. In a way, though, that makes them writers as well.

My Questions:
1. What is your favorite book and why?
2. If you were any color, which one would you be and why?
3. Do you call it: soda, pop, coke, or some other variation?
4. What is your favorite song, and how often does it change?
5. What is something you have done during quarantine that you might not have done otherwise?
6. What is your dream for the future?
7. (And because I like it so much) What is your favorite form of art and why? (Visual, Writing, Music, etc.)

My Nominees:
1. Thalassa Brytaye
2. Mark Borne
3. Jasper Onyx
4. June Bug
5. Vita
6. Ales
7. And I am nominating anyone else who would like to do it as well!

Please let me know if you are interested in the comments below! Let me know if you have any questions, and I will do my best to get back to you with answers as well. 

Author's Note: I recently won first place in a narrative essay contest for the following work! Please let me know what you think in the comment's section below. It makes my day to hear from all of you.

I twirl the pencil between my fingers as I wonder what to write on the blank page before me. The brand-new page of the composition journal holds so much potential for the written word. Ranging from blue lines to red margins, the notebook primarily consists of white space, waiting only for the black lead of my pencil to fill in the lines. Pondering what to write, I think back to the wheelbarrow that I rescued from Goodwill and the first time I became a journalist. I think about the future, and I hope that by writing down my dreams, I can make them real. 

Discolored and broken, the once-red wheelbarrow often stood tilted on its side in the middle of our back yard. When it fell over after a hard gust of wind, the metal would fill with rainwater, creating an economy of algae, mold, and rust on the inside. Dirt clung to the outside edges, and the long wooden handles would stab misplaced palms with nasty splinters. The old wheel turned aimlessly, serving only to get stuck in the mud every time someone needed to use the ancient vessel. As a child, I fell in love with the fantastical and beautiful nature of the simple machine. However, when I was twelve years old, my parents decided that it was time to replace the wheelbarrow, and they threw it in the back of Dad’s old pickup truck. He took it off to Goodwill, and I was devastated. The entire way across town, I bawled my heart out, begging my dad to keep the wheelbarrow at home. My parents tried to reason with me, telling me that it would not work for anything, and that they planned to buy a shiny new one. However, I was not to be dissuaded, and when my mom finally asked me in exasperation what I planned to do with the wheelbarrow, I replied with a piece of twelve-year-old wisdom that I was yet too young to appreciate. Because it was beautiful, I wanted to fill it with beautiful things during the fall and spring months. With that, and a bit more convincing, my parents turned around, went back to Goodwill, and picked up the wheelbarrow from where they had left it outside. My dreams came true, and every year we put the wheelbarrow in front of the house and fill it with plants and occasional pumpkins. 

I could also write about the first time I became a journalist, heading to the Salvation Army to speak with the individuals in charge. I interviewed someone whose life had been drastically changed for the better, and I was astonished at how much was being done to help people in need. The long lines stretching far down the block and around the corner tugged at my heartstrings. When I went back to sit and write the article, I poured my heart into the words, trying to do everything in my power to assist the Salvation Army, even if I did not have much money to spare. 

I’m still twirling my pencil, but as I think, a third idea comes to mind; I could write about the future. In the future, there is so much raw potential for greatness, and its mysteries intrigue me. Peering through shadowy mists, I strain my eyes, trying to make out what lies beyond. All it would take is a couple of words in the present day to adjust this entire dreamlike landscape that lies before me. Writing, I could define the person I would become, and I could peel back the translucent curtain that obscured my view. 

Smiling, for I know what to write about now, I put my pencil to the page, ready to define the person who I wanted to be—who I wanted to become. However, when I start to write, the lead on the pencil tip breaks, leaving both my writing utensil and me no better off than we were before. In that moment, I realized that the future was not ours to define, but rather ours to look forward to. Rather than rush ahead, trying to clear the mist from my vision, I sat back and smiled. Defining the past would be easy, but for the future, the possibilities were limitless. Setting the pencil down, I walked away, leaving the blank page behind.

Author's Note: I was poring through some old documents searching for my favorite short stories, and I rediscovered "Weaver of Words!" I wrote it some time ago, and my writing style has significantly changed since then, yet this award-winning short story still holds a piece of my heart. :) Let me know what you think in the comment section below. It makes my day to hear from you!

Restless shadows writhed in the corner of my mind. They were only kept at bay by the soft glow of a single candle. It had been fifteen years since I had seen them last in this fantasy world. Once again, I was only a persona of myself, a child lost in an abandoned desert. Fifteen years and two months ago, I had stood in this same spot and defeated them for what I had hoped was the last time. Yet, even as I had rooted myself in firm reality, abandoning the world a fevered mind had created, the shadows had vowed to one day return. Now, I feared they had. 

~ ~ ~

I left the bathroom and entered the single bedroom. My apartment was small and lightly furnished, but it provided the lodging I needed inexpensively. I turned on the computer and saw the half-written draft I had been working on upon the display. In frustration, I closed the screen and pulled up my email instead. I had one unread message from several days ago which I opened. Skimming the lines, I saw a reminder to attend the awards ceremony for my short book The Message Inside. It asked that I also prepare a speech. I continued to skim the message then looked back at the date and time of the ceremony. Biting back a string of curses that would have made a soldier proud, I scrambled out of my seat and darted towards the door, snatching my coat and throwing it on while I fumbled with my key. 

I could feel the despair roll through him reverberating in time to the drum of his wings and the beat of his heart. Finally, the answer came. “Because the darkness has returned.” 

“I took you here so you could prove to yourself that you are mightier than you realize. Here in the most dangerous section of the mind, with no light to hold them at bay, the shadows still cower in fear.” Gregarious said. “You alone hold the power to vanquish them.” 

I looked around uncertainly at the advancing army, doubting the truth of his words. 

“Your book has changed my life.” She continued quietly. “Humans, all of us, have so little faith. Things that appear as clear as day to a select few, are deemed hallucinations by others. I know, because I once had mental illness myself. However, I like to think of it as Jeremy does in your book: as a reality in and of itself that only he can see. Your book has inspired me to keep on living up to my full potential.” 

I ran at the dragon, and with a mighty shout of triumph, I slayed him with a single thought, setting myself free from the powers of darkness once and for all. I knew in my heart they could never return. 

From slumber dark and deep

Here does an angel leap.

A specter, clothed in white,

Settled here to spend the night.

A rasping breath adds to the noise

Of deathly silence’s cherished toys.

The angel’s garments shift to black,

And I so deeply feel my lack.

The dawn breaks from behind a cloud,

Heaven’s triumph at last allowed.

And from this dream doth I wake,

I pray the Lord my soul to take. 

It isn't the same without you here.
I miss your kind gaze, long stories, passion for your students.
I was your biggest fan.
I miss the cramped and crowded office you hated,
Studded with pictures, quotes, and pieces of life you had found along the way.
Leaving a piece of yourself with every student,
Every person you met,
It is a wonder you didn't fall apart, stretched too thin,
Parts flying everywhere, falling from the sky like
Blocks from a Jenga game,
Hitting people with bits of realization.
I know you're better off without us now,
Clamoring for your attention,
But it's hard at times.

Now your office is sparse and broken.
The pictures,
Quotes,
Pieces of life,
Have been torn down to make way for the new.
And when the new guy puts his feet on your desk,
It is all I can do not to scream.