Three Seconds

Three Seconds

 

In the beginning, when I was young, I had control over it, I was the master and it was at my command.  I was certain of it.  Now as time has gone by, I have fallen victim to its seductive lure more often than I care to admit.  It has become clear my control was an illusion and I am now at its whim.  I've tried to fight it, to control it, to hide how badly I need it and I confess...  I fear time is running out.  Everyone will know,  I am a time traveler. 

I can jump into the future at will.  Sometimes it's only a few minutes, sometimes it's as much as three hours but I assure you, I have the ability, the power to do so any time I wish.

It is a lonely responsibility to move through time but I am one of the lucky ones, I have a companion... Auggie.  To all outward appearances he is merely an over grown cat but believe me when I say he is in full belief he is a dog.

When he is not patrolling the fence line, he is faithfully at my side waiting for the opportunity of our next jump.  As you might expect the method is quite complex and the electronic equipment involved is beyond the understanding of an ordinary mind.  The choice of the right frequency is paramount to an early departure and ultimately the success of the jump.  Once chosen, usually a cooking ­channel, I take my place... reclining to allow Auggie access to my chest... it's the most comfortable position for him to stand guard over me and then, in what seems like a mere 3 seconds to me I am transported to the future.

"Nice nap?" my wife asks and I smile wryly comfortable in the knowledge I have successfully jumped once more and she is none the wiser... I am a time traveler and I have come from the past to help.

 

By Tegon Maus

 

 

You can check out more of Tegon Maus’ work here;

http://www.writerscafe.org/Tegonmaus

Down the road

Down the road

 

I used to live in a small broken down town in northern California, When I was a child me and my friends would spend our time entertaining each other by walking on railroad tracks, and throwing loose gravel at small targets. The town used to be prosperous when it housed a large USAF base Just outside of it, but since that closed down most of the businesses dried up and left. We lived there because it was a better alternative then being homeless. I spent a lot of time thinking about other places, going places in my mind, places I didn't think anyone else had ever been, Just trying to be any where but there, that place, after awhile, had become like a prison to me. I yearned to be anywhere but there. It happened one summer that just down the road, the wife of one of the towns preachers had shot him dead because he had cheated on her, after that more and more things started to go awry, something always felt off in that town, like it was a teakettle with to much steam built up inside waiting to spill over. Two months later just down the road my brothers best friend, Courtney, was kidnapped, raped and murdered, it was a tragedy. Whats most strange to me, is that after all this time I just now remembered this, this year to be precise, I had been to her funeral, I had seen her grieving parents and siblings. I suppose that seeing and being surrounded by all of this at the age of nine was just too much for my young brain to reconcile, and I just tried to forget it as best I could. I feel strange whenever I go back to that town now, I feel like a ghost, walking through its former life that can neither return nor dissipate into the ether. I moved down the road to another city, but sometimes I feel like that town is trying its best to call me back.

 

By 21drameus

 

You can check out more of 21drameus’ work here; http://www.writerscafe.org/21drameus

Coffee

Coffee

Something  I said to an online friend lately got me thinking.  There are two kinds of people in this world.  Those who like coffee, and those who don’t.  Coffee is really not a take it or leave it kind of thing like softdrinks or lemonade.  I like my coffee.  All kinds of it.  My favourite is strong and dark, and just hot enough not to burn my tongue, with just enough cream to take the bite out of it.  I can drink any and all sorts of coffee, but I do have my preferred brands.  Sometimes I just like to change it up a bit and have a cappuccino or a Turkish coffee.  When it’s a change it up kind of thing, it’s not that I like one over the other, but that sometimes different is just good. 

But the thing is about coffee, without it, I am a bitch.  I am moody, have headaches, am out of sorts, and not at all myself.  At those times, just about any coffee  will do, weak, bitter, two day old, or the dreaded instant coffee.

There is such a thing as bad coffee, but the only thing worse than bad coffee is none at all.

 

By KLGoode

 

You can check out more of KLGoode's work here; http://www.writerscafe.org/writing/amendoim1988/1269252/

Skies are Falling, Dear

Skies are Falling, Dear

Skies are falling, dear,

You said you'd wait til' then,

You ran right through the snow,

Yes, I do remember when,

You're drunk off of your spite,

Hypocracy's got you high,

Running out of sand,

Running out of Lye,

Dimes are falling as nickels,

Peering, Once released,

The contour of the sunlight,

You construe it as a beast,

Within boundaries you emit,

What I make as a toll,

Outside them you pull the stitches,

Of the wounds of mine you stole,

You're sullen as you stalk,

Anticipating my regret,

It's evident I have none,

Our deeds have surely met,

You give the prose of past,

Glorify your flight,

The clocks are ticking dawn,

Pouring fourth in light,

Skies are falling, dear,

You said you'd wait til' then,

I am the seed you'd sow,

Though, you don't remember when.

 

By trustmeimthedoctor

 

You can check out more of trustmeimthedoctor’s work here;
http://www.booksie.com/trustmeimthedoctor

 

Across The Crystal Crimson Sands

Across The Crystal Crimson Sands

Across the crystal crimson sands

a shadow bends to pray,

another soldier clings to life

but gives his life today.

through the haze of smoke and screams

he listens to their pleas,

with bloody hand upon his heart

he bows upon his knees.

He looks the soldier in the eyes

but death is all he sees,

still he prays, his faith is strong

will this hatred ever cease?

Someone lost their father

their brother and their son,

to the mercy of their country

whom handed him the gun.

What's left for him to fight for

how much more will it take,

the fear of death consumes him

he knows his souls at stake.

Many shadows walk the sands

of tears and crimson red,

each one bowed upon their knees

another soldier's dead.

Under the stone of marble

beneath the mound of clay,

a brave and courageous soldier

slowly fades away.

Tomorrow he'll be forgotten

as another takes his place,

a shadow soon shall mourn for him

his soul he will embrace.

Across the crystal crimson sands

silence falls upon the dead,

this battle has finally ended

its remains of bone and lead.

 

By angellynn

You can check out more of angellynn’s work here;http://www.booksie.com/angellynn 

On dragon wings

On dragon wings

The sky is your kingdom,

yours to explore....soaring and tumbling

The heavens you cross....

You feel the air

part before you

as you race the wind

on dragon wings.

The clouds you own,

with them you play...you blow them, shape them,tear them to shreads...

And when to hot,

to freshen up

through them you fly

on dragon wings.

You know no fear,

You laugh at pain....

From every danger

great strength you gain...

You have no match

You reign supreme

When out you fly

On dragon wings.

  

On dragon wings.

By angelique30

You can check out more of angelique30’s work here;http://www.booksie.com/angelique30

Dance Season and Lycra

It’s end of year dance show season and time for all those dance mums (and dads) to watch their kid show off their talent. Because every parent wants to watch their seven year old dance in sequined lycra that makes Lady Gaga look respectable. Well apparently, many parents are do, because the shows are full of parents ready with cameras to one day show their grandchildren when they eventually come. And it’s not just the clothing, but the dancing. May I call it an atrocity, the way children are encouraged at such a young age it’s okay to dress and to act that way? I don’t know what the parents call it, but if I ever had a child I wouldn’t take them anywhere near anything to do with dancing just so they don’t get the slightest idea in their head that they might remotely want to do dance. Yeah sure, it has good physical benefits, but I’ll put them in soccer for that, or better yet, ice hockey.

Watching a seven year old twerk in sequined lycra is enough to make Miley Cyrus look tame. And they say the children these days are losing their innocence through media, they’re losing it through dance teachers.

Perhaps that’s a bit presumptuous, I’m not sure not all dance schools are as innocent-devouring as the one I watched the other day. I did hear a comment from a teacher (at a different dance performance which I didn’t get to watch), that they were proud were proud for preserving the children’s innocence. Which according to someone who did watch it, they did compared to this one. Perhaps it was just this particular dance show, though, from memory, I would say it’s not.

I guess the fact that the very first thing seen when the lights came on was some girl sticking her ass in the air didn’t really help. It only got worse from there. I wouldn’t say it was all inappropriate e for some of the older girls, they’re old enough to actually understand what they’re doing, whereas I would say a young child shaking their ass doesn’t really ring in to their minds what it actually suggests. But it encourages them at young age that it is appropriate when really, I very highly believe that it’s not.

What happened to just doing twirls in pretty pink dresses with frills? Those were the good days, when a little kid could show off their dancing without showing off their bottom.

There’s just something about it that I find unbearable to watch, that makes me feel like the destruction of the world is going to be because every girls feels it’s appropriate to wear almost nothing because they’ve grown up doing so in front of hundreds.

But what can you do about it? Not much. Boycott all dance schools? I don’t think that would work much, but hey, it’s worth a try right.

All I know is that I have no plans to encourage children to join a dance school, despite the physical benefits it can bring (and I must admit, some of them were pretty impressive- but they didn’t need fancy clothes, or lack of it, to show it). So that’s just what I think, and it’s what I’ll continue to think, until I see an end of year dance show that succeeds in not bringing out the lycra. And, I’ve got to add, this is all coming from a girl who got pulled out of dance at the age of six because her parents thought it was too inappropriate- but oh, she joined Physie next (fake tans and boofy hair- yeah that didn’t last long either). You know what though, I’m happy they did that, because I don’t own one thing of lycra, and amazingly enough I don’t walk around with practically nothing on and my ass in the air.  

 

No Wonder they Called it 'Shine'

When Geoffrey Rush played an autistic pianist, I wonder if he meant it. If he performed it with a passion, with nothing less than his whole being. Saying that, I’ve never seen the movie, but it won an Oscar or something like that.
I wonder if I had seen the movie, it would have been different when I meet David Helfgott. It wasn’t until the day I found out he had a mental illness, and I had trudged into work not looking forward to two hours of hearing a man tap away at his piano. I had seen some good shows during my time as an usher there, but this was just another pianist, playing all sorts of classical enlightenment, something which didn't appeal to my young mind.
When the group of us ushers meet our manager and we were given our positions for the night I didn’t begrudge that I wouldn’t be inside watching the performance. We moved inside the check the hall and he was sitting at the piano, practising in a floral printed shirt.
At first thought, his music wasn’t as hard as the usual classical musician. It didn’t have the hard pulse, the stress in each beat. It wasn’t that he seemed to play it with ease, or simpleness, but he just seemed to play it, as it was, without it having to be soft, or strong, or anything like that.
A few of us disappeared into a side room for a moment and when we came out he was standing at the edge of the stage, talking to a couple of the ushers and our manager. The rest of us joined them at the edge.
I think now, of the best way to describe my first impression of him beyond the music, but nothing comes. There’s nothing that can be picked about him, no characteristic to show who he was. He just was.
He went along the line we had formed, holding out his hand to shake and asking our names. He’d put out his right hand for the next person to take, and with his left he held it out for the person before. He always had two hands in his.
“We’re a team.” He went back along the line shaking our hands again.
We could’ve stayed there longer, but we all knew we had work to do, and as we walked out of the hall smiles broke on our faces.
“Oh.”
We were all a bit in airs. There’s no right way to put a first impression of him than to say what happened. There was something about him, something in the way it was like he shook hands because he wanted to. Like he valued knowing you, he valued you being there. It was the feeling that was left once he had gone.
I wished now, that I would have been able to watch the whole show, but I got my small chance after the interval. I swapped briefly with one of the ushers inside and slipped in just after a piece had finished. He was standing, bowing of a sorts. He had two thumbs up and was looking each way at the people all around him. There was a smile in those thumbs.
Then he returned to the piano and began. It was that same feel that had been there when he was practising. It wasn’t like a man who had spent hours rigidly perfecting the art of each key, though he probably had. He’d stop every now and then, and then pick up again on the next set of beats. The sounds flew throughout the room as it picked up, faster, quicker notes. But it still held everything that can only be described with what wasn’t there.
I imagine when they make the CDs, they wouldn’t pick up his mumbling. It’s a pity. He’d mumble the beats; one two three, and other things that couldn’t be understood. It wasn’t loud, but sometimes it could be heard with the notes of the piano. They were together, one song, this one beautiful song.
You ask what happiness is, and what I’d have to do is push you to him. I can’t say whether he’s happy or not, but what I can say is that he’s good. I know you don’t have to shake his hand to see what’s in him. I wonder why everyone can’t be like him; then the world would be full of art and smiles.
I don’t know what was being meant when they called the movie ‘Shine.’ It doesn’t really matter, not now, not when I think about it. But when I think shine, I think of how David Helfgott shines onto everyone, and there’s happiness, and that I’d say, is all that’s good.

http://www.readwave.com/no-wonder-they-called-it-shine-_s17055

The Halfway Mark Above and Below

14 days left of NaNoWriMo and not only am I behind in my word count but I still don't which letters are meant to be appropriately capitalised- should I do NanoWrimo, or NaNowrimo, or... I spend too much time trying to figure it out instead of writing.
I've just peaked the 20k mark and have just over 2000 words a day to finish. Lucky for me, after tomorrow I'll be heading into five days of no work. Unfortunately for me, after those five days I'll be heading into working every day bar two. There is going to be some major writing days.
Keeping the little graph balanced isn't working like I had hoped, however it's certainly going to better than last year.
If you haven't read my last blog post, then my plans for this year was to do a collection of linked short stories. Now my ideal length for a sort stories is about 1500 words, but I've found myself writing 3000+ for some of them. When there's no pressure to do anything but write, it's what happens, you just write. No longer is there any caring about what people will think, or whether a donkey can really turn into a hippopotamus, it just happens. I think the times that I spend the most thinking is just one naming the characters (it does get hard coming up with so many names, next time they're all being called either Mary or Fred). I've written stories that I probably wouldn't of ever written otherwise, that I would of discontinued after the first paragraph because I know it's leading to crap. But right now, it doesn't matter if it leads to crap. Yes, some people do say that you should put some decency into what you write, but right now, with over 2000 words a day needing to be done, there ain't an ounce of time for decency. Decency comes in the editing, and frankly because of the lack of decency in my piece, I may never do anything do it. But I don't care. It's written, I'll of had fun (so far) and I'll hopefully still be alive to tell the tale (fingers crossed).
Maybe if I was writing a novel it would be different, I'll pay more attention to some of it. But I know that if I really want, I can drag stories out of it and use separately. I don't want to, but if I write a ripper of a story then I will pay more attention to it than to some of the others. Saying that though, I probably won't pay much attention to any of them.
So, all in all the moral of this is that I've just spent writing time on writing blog time. But what does it matter, I've had fun writing this blog, and hey, isn't that what NaNoWriMo's about.

NaNoWriMo

 

 

Yes, I did choose the biggest picture; why? It's pretty. That's all, no other reason needed.

So, if it's not obvious by the oversized picture, I am doing NaNoWriMo this year (right place to put all the capitals?). I had a failed attempt last year (and to not have to admit how much I didn't do let's just say that I did under 10%- now you all have to figure it out; I'm sure the maths will stop the truth coming out). However, this year I'm determined, and I'm not tackling anything as complicated as I tried to do last year; I couldn't even figure out all the links I was trying to make in everything as I tried to get around writing a novel, that wasn't one straight story.

This year I'm doing short stories, I by no means am a novelist, and I doubt I'll ever be one. But all the short stories are linked, in a somewhat easy way. One word taken from the last sentence of a story is the prompt for the next story. That's my way to get around writing a novel that isn't the normal straight novel. The best thing about it is that even if I don't get to 50,000 words, I can end it practically wherever I want- perhaps there could be a novella on the way instead.

I've found that I get most of my writing done whilst on the bus, or in coffee shops, on paper. Which does mean typing it up later (which makes me have some vain hope that I've written more words than I have). There's something enjoyable about handwriting, even when it's only done because there's no computer handy. I feel like I can write whatever I want, even though it's harder to erase from paper than a computer. But really, whether you're writing on your brother's back or in space, as long as you're writing, it's good.

To anyone else doing Nanowrimo, good luck. 1667 words a day seems like nothing until you start. And then miss a day, and then the next, and then you've got 40,000 words and two days left. Good luck.

And for anyone who'd like to look me up

http://nanowrimo.org/participants/archia

 

 

 

 

Trips and Glances

You’re on a train. You know you won’t make it to your next bus on time but still you have some hope. When you get off the train you’ll run up the escalator and cross the road to the bus stop and most likely find the stop devoid of people. But by some chance the bus may be late. The train slows into the station. It stops. You’re on the first carriage but you don’t realise that the train hasn’t gone to the end of the platform. There’s another boy in the carriage and he rises to get off too. The doors don’t open. There’s a button that says press when lit. It’s not lit but you’re both wondering why the doors aren’t opening automatically and he presses anyway. A couple more presses and you exchange a glance. You try and look through the clear doors to see if anyone else is getting off but no one seems to be.

You don’t know how he guessed it but you hear him mumble something and ask him to repeat. ‘I think someone’s fallen’. A thud comes over you. A man on the platform looks in and you see a hand slice across his throat. Then you see a woman. Her body is bent over and when she pulls herself up you see the distraught face. People are around her and you don’t know if they know her but one’s got their arms around her and another’s giving her water. You wonder if it was her friend, or a sibling or a stranger.

You exchange some words with the boy about how you wish you could get off. You’ve sat down and you feel yourself shaking. You almost want to cry, but you know you won’t for this stranger. Your mind twists and turns and you pray and beg and hope that somehow they’re alive. The PA crackles and the announcer comes on. Someone has jumped in front of the train. ‘We need to wait for the police to arrive before further action, please remain in your carriage.’ It’s honest. A few people have moved up into the front of the carriage and are peering out. On the platform the train workers seem to be walking just past your carriage and looking down. They’re under there, they could be under you. You can’t help thinking of a body squished beneath your feet. People who must have been waiting for trains seem to be trying to gain a peek from a distance and you wonder about that morbid fascination. What can they see? But you think you’d rather not look. You shake.

You wonder what other people are thinking, but none appear to be worried. You feel like you shouldn’t feel anything, that the only thing you have a right to feel is annoyance for the delay. You don’t know this person; you have no right to feel pity. You wonder how to distract your mind.

You don’t know how it happened, you can’t even begin to comprehend how, but you hear the words, and ‘they’re alive.’ You look up, out the window and there’s a woman being held by police. She’s covered in dark shades of dirt but the first thing you notice is how her hair isn’t that messed up. You smile. You smile and look at the boy and you can’t help but mutter ‘that’s amazing’. You get up but don’t know why and sit back down and smile and pray that she’ll be alright. She sits rights outside your window and you can look at her easily. You wonder.

The announcer comes back on and you’re being ushered to the front of the train where you go through the controller’s room and onto the platform. Despite the racing thoughts you can’t help but take a glance at the controls and realise you’ve never seen them before. You stop for a moment on the platform and look at the woman who’s now surrounded. You wonder. The boy has ended up behind you and you have one last mumbled glance with him and then you’re off. Pushing through the crowded, staring platform and down the stairs, where you dip your ticket and stand, unrushed on the escalator. You pray and hope and wonder about strangers and miracles.

Sirens are filling the air and you know where they’re going. And then you smile, and walk slowly to the bus stop where you wait, knowing you never would have caught the first one. And then the bus comes and you get on and you pull out your pen and you write. You write about truth, and you write about miracles.

And this is where I say that this is a true story. I never write the truth because nothing ever happens, but something did happen, and so the truth is written, because I have no other use of this memory.

Split Milk and Graves

How many times must a man resent his losses?

And cry over the milk that has split,

at the bottom of his grave?

When will the princess

become a mockery of girls?

And the knight,

the man that has all the true love?

When this happens,

the world will be thrown into its torrent;

words and words and syllables,

on the tips of each tongue.

It is when the man with no tongue will laugh,

and be happy that eyes must do the talking.

Then a man can count his losses,

and a princess will be a mockery.

It is then that graves will smile,

and knights will have no love.

But no fear must be felt,

by whom is fearful.

Only those that do not know

will shake.

because only those that do not know,

won’t realise,

a princess is just a girl,

and a grave is just a block of earth.

But no one will realise that spilt milk,

is just a puddle.

 

 

 

I rarely write poetry, stories really are more my thing, but every now and then I get a random spur and attempt to put something into... well something into something like this.

Arrivederci photos

86 photos in and my camera wasn't coming out again. And it was probably one of the best things of the whole trip. There's something so much nicer about seeing things through your own eyes instead of through a camera. You see, after taking those 86 photos I was beginning to doubt the quality of my camera, which there was serious quality doubts for a long time prior. So realising that there were two other people which a lot more reasonable cameras on the trip, and really an extra person's photos wouldn't matter. I don't mind snitching off other people's photos, and so that, is exactly what I did. It's so much nicer not having to fumble around in your bag for a camera, instead being able to yell at people for being slow whilst they fumbled. Next time I'm going somewhere, I'm leaving my camera at home.

When in Rome...

It's normal to see a procession of ancient Roman people. We were walking along somewhere to dinner in Rome and had just paused for a moment when we were treated to this procession of Ancient Roman soldiers, officials and funny hats. They stopped nearby, formed a line and began this little thing. Unfortunately they may as well have been speaking to Latin to us so we didn't really have any idea what was happening. But it must of been something. And then they moved on, forming up their procession and walking off down the street. And we were still bewildered.

Hogwarts, Hogwarts, Hoggy Warty Hogwarts

One place that we had to make a trip to whilst in London, was the Harry Potter studios. Now I'm not the biggest Harry Potter fanatic but how can you not go to a place that has the clothes Daniel Radcliffe once wore (sigh). And even if you don't care for the costumes there's plenty of stuff to be interested in. Such as; the Great Hall, the invisibility cloak, butterbeer, chess pieces, Hogwarts entrance gates, Privet Drive, Dobby and creepy looking models of all the people. These are just a few particular things that I liked, but there is plenty more. On the topic of plenty more, I have photos of pretty much everything there was and I'm happy to put up any more (though I'm sure you could Google what you want to see anyway), but if there's any photos of anything you want to see, tell me. Like always, there was one thing that particularly amazed me. I had heard about it, and I had expected something pretty small, but then I walked in saw this; This is what was used for all the long shots and stuff of Hogwarts. It's 15 metres long, which is 50 feet and it is big. It makes you wish someone could give you a shrinking potion and you could go and live in it. And to finish it all off, there was the gift shop, which always makes you wish you had a money making spell. All in all, what more can I say than it was a truly magical day.

Facebook page

I haven't yet mentioned that I have a Facebook page, which has as many interested people as, uh... this. http://www.facebook.com/pages/Archia/482562555156462 Anyway, doesn't hurt to try right?

A little bronze faun and a face

Italy, Pompeii, the ancient city covered by the eruption of Mount Vesuvius in 79 AD. It was because of me that we made the side trip here and the only reason I wanted to go was because I knew something about it and it sounded cool. So off we went armed with 4 litres of waters and umbrellas to keep out the sun. If you’re going anywhere in Italy in Summer, you want water, and lots of it. There were several things I wanted to see but there was one thing in particular, this; The House of the Faun, named after the bronze faun that was found in it. The one that resides in it now is only a replica, I think the real one might be in Turkey. But something about it’s delicate way enchanted me. There was such a delicacy to it, it’s by no means a big statue, and it just seems to hold itself, like it’s doing it for a reason and in any minute it will come to life and continue its task. The House of the Faun also holds the Alexander mosaic, though again a replica. There’s a considerable chunk missing from it and it only makes you wonder what beautiful pieces were meant to be in that place. But what you can see is Alexander the Great’s face, his face that seems to hold little fear as he bravely faces King Darius of Persia. Such a charming house, it makes you wonder what it was really like.

And What Did I Do?

Now like every good dedicated reader of this blog (I mock myself here), I'm sure you're asking what I actually did on my nice holiday. And even if you're not, everyone likes to blab on about their holidays. They always to give you advice on where to go and they talk on and on and you just want to shout at them to actually leave something for you to see. That is why, instead of talking my whole holiday off, I shall write it and you can choose what you read. Now to begin, Austria is a good place to start, even though it was the third country I went to. But what is going to Austria without a big pretzel, a giant beer and a Sound of Music bike tour. The hills are alive with the sound of... veering bicycles, out of tune singing, shameless middle aged women, and frantically moving feet trying to work off all those pretzels. But I'm sure everyone had fun, even I did. There was the option of doing a bus tour or a bicycle one and my piece of advice (because every traveller has their fair share of advice), go for the bikes. Whereas on the bus tour you just drive past places, on the bikes you can stop, and take photos, and sing a few more do a deers. But you gotta be keen to do either I'd say, you gotta be prepared to either hide your face in your basket, or sing your lungs out. And you can't pretend you don't know the words, they give you them. Considering that was the only reason we passed through Austria, I have little more to say. I'm not about to give you my whole itinerary, I don't it's much cared for. And that was my trip to Austria, the condensed version, for reading in a snap.

To Fly and Return

After hours of worrying, countless webpages and half a dozen 'the final door is now closed', I really don't know what I was worrying about at all. At all. Everything was fine, there and back. The only problem would of been only getting 30 minutes of sleep on the whole trip back, but seven movies later and at least I feel more educated. So since the plane trip was a success, the trip had to be one to, and well, it was. London and Paris and Rome oh my. Now, I believe, a bed is calling.

To Fly or not to Fly? (cause I'm corny like that)

Half an hour researching how to stay sane on planes and I ain't got much. There's some number out there, that dictates the amount of people who shake every time they get on that small space of a plane. I've never been one of those people, until tomorrow at least. Tomorrow I get on a 14 hour flight, followed by a 9 hour one very soon after, and I'm shaking at the mere thought of it. Now, I've never been one to be scared of flying. I've been on too many short flights to count and a few 9 hour ones. I love flying, everything about it, I think is great. And I've never had more than that quick thought that questions the air in the cabin which is dismissed quickly. But when I think about it now, my mind swells in a hopeless blobbering mess and I just wait for the panic attack. Which have been happening lately. I don't like small spaces where I know I can't get out of. I'm one of those people that'll take the stairs. Not because I don't like being in the small space of the elevator for a minute, but because what if the elevator breaks down and I'm stuck in there for an hour. Constraint is my problem, not the small space itself. Still, I've been reading all these ways to counter a panic attack but I doubt them. Let me list them. - Reading: I can't read more than three paragraphs of anything without stressing out (I have an issue reading things these days, I have to repeat sentences, go back, really concentrate, and in the end it stresses me out and I get close to a mini panic attack). -Listening to music: I've never really been into music in my life, so listening doesn't distract me. -Watching movies/tv: I have to watch kids movies because other ones are too long and complicated and I get bored. But kids movies are easy to watch and so my mind wanders. -Breathing: If I start inhaling deeply, I'll just start thinking about all the air I'm wasting. -Talking with others: I'm not flying alone, except no one knows I have this issue, and no one is going to know. So I can't talk about it with them. Also talking in general, I'm going to be sitting next to my sister, and if she's enjoying her movie, she's not going to want to talk to me. -Drugs: yeah no, I'm not taking that option. -Aisle seats: I'm shy, I don't like empty space like that next to me. -Window seat: I'll look out and wish I was enjoying the air out there. -Understanding the plane: I know where they keep the lemonade on the drinks trolley, I know the plane. -Thinking happy thoughts: I think this whole problem is in my mind, I can't distract myself with my own mind, right now it's practically impossible. I don't know when the last time was I just let my mind drift. Perhaps this is more than claustrophobia or fear of flying. I'm not expecting the plane to crash though, however I do get scared whenever there's turbulence. I'm also worried about having such a horrible, stressful time there, that I'm not going to be able to get on the plane coming back (I wouldn't mind living there, but I doubt immigration would agree). In the end, I think the best thing to distract me is going to be the meal (I actually think plane food is the most exciting food ever, I absolutely love it, even if it tastes like cardboard). Well, I have now had my little, oh gosh I'm going to run away screaming what do I do, moment. I think this fear I feel is really just something within a greater mess of my mind. It is all just in my mind really, and I know that, but it's hard to conquer you're mind, when all you have is itself to conquer it with. Once this flight is over, I'll be back on here, sharing how I went. My hope is that I'll get on that plane and feel comfortable with it because I've flown so much. All I need to do is not think about it. Wish me luck!

God bless who now?

God bless you, and you and you and don't forget little Harry that I've never met but I'm sure exists somewhere in the space of the world. Something that I have found (through my extensive span across writing sites mostly), is the nature in which people spill 'God bless you' off their fingertips. And I don't like it. I don't like how easily people use the words, how easily they use it in what must be a habit now. Now before I begin my rant on this, I must say that I am not an atheist, but my problem with this is that you don't know that. For all you know, I could be the biggest God-hating-let's-go-on-a-massacre-and-kill-anyone-who-believes-in-God person. I'm not, but I could. I didn't use to mind it when people said God bless you, but it began to annoy me, when someone said it to me, and I realised that their god wasn't the same as mine. And I don't want to be blessed by a god or religion that I don't agree with or believe in. Perhaps it could be said, that it shouldn't phase me at all because I don't believe in it, that it should just be to let pass. But what I care about is the thought (even though I doubt there's much thought on your part about what you're actually saying). I don't want someone thinking that they can bless me with their god. I do not want your god to bless me, I would rather live my life with my god, funnily enough. I don't know why people do it; do you think that saying God bless you to someone is going to suddenly have an epiphany and believe in your religion? Or do you think it earns you brownie points from your god? Aye? I don't mind it if people say it to me in context, if they know me, if they know my religion, then its okay to spill it out every second sentence. But for almost every person who I come across that says it, that is far from the case. It gets tempting to have a go at the next person that says it to me actually. I wouldn't be surprised if all that I've said comes across as a load of anti-religious, stuck-up dribble. Well I'd probably agree that it is a bit of dribble at least, but what can I say, I just don't want to be blessed by a strangers god.

Oh look, what's this?

Oh look a survey, what a mighty fine thing on this mighty fine day, what else would I want to be doing on this wonderful sunny day.
If you read the post below you would know I was writing a novel, and I have a survey going because there's a part I want to write, but I need to know what people think about beauty. If you do it it's not going to spoil or give away any of the story at all and its anonymous as most surveys are these days. I would appreciate it terribly, it would be a great help.
If you do do it thank you very very much and if you don't thank you anyway for reading this.

http://www.surveymonkey.com/s/DG225MC

Ponytail Start Girl

Every now and then a writer gets a spur of inspiration and decides to sit down with a computer screen in hand and a several hundred thousand word goal. There are those, that sit there with such a determination that after several millions cups of coffee, three computers and that little laptop you found in the street collection, they do reach their goal. Once this far some are lucky enough to get it published, others are lucky enough to be bothered to self-publish and then the others are lucky enough to not care either way and have it sit collecting dust. There are then, of course, the people who have the several millions cups of coffee, three computer and that little laptop, but still never manage to complete their goal. This could be for several reasons; lack of inspiration, no time, or they already have the whole story planned out in their head and that makes them happy enough that they don't need to write the rest. I'd say may problem is a combination of the first and the last. There is a reason why I never plan out a story before I write it. But now I am determined, I want to be one of those first people that let their novel sit and collect dust (because I doubt I'll be the other two). I have the time (those thats debatable as I will need to get a proper job to pay for those several million cup of coffee), and I have the inspiration. And, the best of all, despite the fact that I did write the end before I even decided to write the rest of the story, I have no idea what's going to happen in the middle. Anything can happen. So, without much ado, I present to you my several hundred word spurred by several hundreds coffees story; Ponytail Start Girl. I hope that you enjoy, not get too confused, and no matter what you read, everything is meant to be there.

It starts with a girl, with ponytails and two hands; eight fingers, two thumbs, some toes and a little pink nose. She was youngish and her blonde hair sometimes looked grey in the light. She wanted to be a ballerina when she grew up, or a princess, but her parents made sure she was never too hopeful.

There’s moments in childhood when the mind flits between dreams, when they know what they want inside, and then find another. They can do anything they want, they can be anything they want to be. What is it that forces them to lose those dreams? When does the ballerina stop believing they can be a tap dancer?

One day he put on his tap shoes and danced around the house, cracking the tiles and singing away the moths. Who knew how he could one day be an astronaut and fly to the moon whilst gazing around at stars with dancing people called Marty.

Our ponytail girl, now she was a pretty girl, quite pretty, absolutely gorgeous as her parents would say. She stopped believing them though when they started calling her sister gorgeous. But she’s ugly, she would say, she’s not gorgeous. You’re both gorgeous. She didn’t see anything beautiful about her sister. Gorgeous means ugly then. Of course not. She didn’t like being called gorgeous. She grew though, as any person would. Age could not be defied by her as slowly, she lost her innocence. To some she lost her beauty, to others she gained it.

She meet a woman from the red part of town, glazed in pettiness.

“You could be a right picture you know girl.”

“What do you mean?”

“Slash you up with some powder, cut that skirt and you could be pitch perfect.”

“I don’t want that.”

“You got too much pride, is that it?”

“No. I just don’t want that.”

“What are you doing around here then, looking for your own doll?”

“I’m not really sure.”

“So you are looking for a little grub.”

“I have to get going.”

“Bet you need it, that’s why you’re here. You need some dough. Parents push you out, that it?”

“My parents are royalty.”

“Then what are you doing here?”

 

And for those who feel inspired to read more, let me direct you here:

http://www.fictionpress.com/s/3105882/1/Ponytail-Start-Girl