other bits of blog

Monday, November 30, 2009

the rain to the rainbow

Brr, it’s cold.
And rainy.
And wet.
And slippery.
And dark.
And dreary.
No fun.

Any of you out there like rain?
Oh, well, guess I can’t be the all mighty dictator of you and your minds.
Anyway, I’ll give you some information on it.
Rain, I mean.

Earth is Crying
Stare to the sky
The day was cold
Was wet
The clouds are gray
And dark
They threaten rain
Tiny drops
And drips
And plops
On the roof
It falls
The first plop lands
Turning my hair dark
And cold
I run
Run to cover
Run to shelter and warmth
The rain wants me to watch its dance
It starts
First drops
And more
They fall too quick to dodge
To quick to duck
Sheets of ice
Surround me
Making no sound
Rising up and down
Pulled back by the wind
Into the cloud
Into the dark
The cold
They collect their friends
And fall again
This time they drop
And hit my nose
My feet
I tilt my head
Stretch out my tongue
And wait for those drops
Of sky and earth and all
To fall
I drink
I sip
The earth is crying
But it cries with joy
And I know
That we must fill its joy
Help to carry that burden
And take it upon ourselves
To save our home

As the rain stops
The sun shines
A colorful arc shines in the sky
The earth is crying
But it cries with joy

Fine, I agree with you. Rain is alright.

After all, it does bring rainbows.

Saturday, November 28, 2009

live, eat, give thanks

Living Gratitude
Helped and cherished
Loved and cared for
Songs and family
And friends
And those who you don’t know
Those who show up
And disappear
Those who know you
Those who feel you
Who see you
For who you are
The ones that are there
In the night
Hovering in and
Of your dreaming
This is Life
Life who cares
Life who loves
Life who knows you and sees you
Life is the one on our table
Life is why we hold our heads high
Life is you
And all you are
And all you can be
And we save this day
This day of feast
To rejoice
To celebrate
To give gratitude
To life
To give thanks
And remember
To find friends
To see loved ones
Eat and tell
The stories of the past
The love that is there
That love
Is life
Live it

Wednesday, November 25, 2009


Diana is not only a spy, but she is almost a boy now.

Mica takes my hand, and leads me through the street. They are strange and unfamiliar, but Mica seems to know them well.
“Where are we?” I ask abruptly.
“Dublin,” he says.
“Dublin? You mean Dublin in Ireland?”
“Yeah, what did you think I meant?”
“I don’t know. Three days ago, I was in Oxford.”
He stares at me.
“So, you were in Oxford, big deal.”
“Oxford, England. I have no idea how I got to be in Ireland. No idea.”
“Oh.” Mica turns pink, then forgetting his situation, he leads me onward. We don’t talk for a while, lost in our own thoughts. But the silence seems deafening.
“Where are we going?” I ask when Mica turns onto a busy cobblestone street.
“To the Dragonfly.” He turns around and keeps walking.
Mica’s short hair is coal black, like night. The edges curl around his soft, inquisitive face, like a young boy. But I feel a royal air about him. He holds himself high.
I look down at myself. My tattered, wet nightgown still clings to my body. My slippers have fallen off, and my hair is tangled and uncombed. Suddenly I feel embarrassed to look like this in front of Mica. I try to comb out my hair with my fingers, and straighten out my dress. Nothing works. I turn red, and look down at the street until Mica stops me in front of a small inn.
“Diana, I don’t know you very well, but I need to tell you something before we go inside.”
“Alright, go ahead.”
“I’m a thief, Diana.” I smile, I have my own secret.
“I’m a spy,” I say. Mica raises his eyebrows quickly, and then keeps talking.
“Anyway, I’m the advisor to the King. The King of the Thieves. I’m his spy, his best friend, and, we, well, the Rouges, that’s us, the thieves, don’t exactly…” he trails off.
“Let girls in,” I say, finishing his sentence.
“So I have to turn into a boy?” I ask.
“Yeah,” he says again. He leads me to the back of the inn, explaining. “If you want to stay here, then I have to take you into my room. The back way. By the way, this is the Dragonfly.” Mica takes me to a tiny door in a fence. He pulls a key out of his pocket, and unlocks it.
“A Rouge, needing a key. That’s interesting,” I tease. Mica smiles and opens the door. A tiny rope swings from a window on the third story. He starts climbing, and pulls me up after him. We step into his room. For a thief, the room is like a palace. Rooms, actually. He has his own bathroom, and a door, I think, that connects him to the King.
“Come on,” he says, gesturing toward the bathroom. I follow him, blushing. “Sit down.” He indicates a chair in the corner. I sit, and he runs into his room.
Mica comes back holding scissors. He makes cutting motions with his hands, looking at me. I nod my head.
The boy walks up to me and cuts the first lock. Soon, almost all my hair is on the floor. I finger what’s left. My copper red hair is cropped to my chin, curling to frame my sharp jaw and high cheekbones. Mica hands me a mirror. I look like my brother, who’s two years older than me. I look like a boy.


Tuesday, November 24, 2009


Guess what this is. No, not the picture, the poem!

Reaching for Clouds
The black mechanism
Looms toward me
As I walk from my door
I do not yet know its power
Its force
I climb the two silver rungs
Walk onto the machine
Of motions lyrics
I jump…

Suddenly I fly upward
Taller than the tree in my yard
The tallest pine
And oak and maple
Until I reach that unknown land
The pearly puffs of cloud
Twist themselves to form
White and tangled ropes
So that I may squeeze
And not fall to that machine
I reach out
I grab and hold
It disappears into the night
Gone with its friends
I fall
The wind whipping my hair
Across my face
I plunge
As tall as the tree
I grope with my hands
Grabbing a limb
Of the maple
Wanting to defy gravity
Save myself from that endless
Rhythmic motion
I can not stop this
Tick tick tick
I stare at the watch on my wrist
It tells me time and change
And it has only been a mere ten seconds
It feels as if days have passed
As I scrunch up my knees
Leap to this strange motion
In the air
I close my eyes
And drop to the darkness…

My eyes open
I am sitting on the black
The tears and the rips
The rusty springs
My fall was stopped
By some strong force
I stand again and jump
I know it will all repeat itself
But I face the challenge

Hint: boing. Boing.
Comment, tell me what it is, and I’ll post the answer next time.
Until then...oh, duh! Um...wait!...Um...have fun?
Yeah, have fun!
And comment!

Sunday, November 22, 2009


I just started typing this morning. It just came out. Dragons!—Well, sort of, on the cover. Magic!—For a little while. Friendship comes out, and love. But not yet. Here goes.
Dancing With Thieves
Singed Candle Flames
Rap, rap, rap!! The rain pounds on the door and the knocks are heard throughout the house. The girl gets up. She walks to the door and opens it. She screams. There is silence.

I wake up, stunned. The room smells as if all the sewer water of Great Britain was dumped inside. My nose wrinkles automatically. What is the daughter of a wealthy family doing in such conditions?
I think to try and answer my own question. I remember rain against the door and someone knocking. Did Mother get the door? Was it only the rain knocking? Did it flood the house? All these answers seem unreasonable. I am still wondering when I notice that I am not home at all.
So I look at my surroundings. Wooden walls are covered with cobwebs and stained with something sour. A door blends into the wall but I can still make out the nails and bolts and sheets of metal that make up the red and rusty knob. The floor is a dull concrete and as I wipe my hand over it and inch of dust is revealed. I wipe my hand off. Then, as I see what is there in my palm, I let out a small squeak. Dried, caked, blood covers my hand from the tip of each finger running down to my ripped sleeve. I pull the sleeve up and I quiver at what I see, trying not to cry out. A gash almost as big as my arm itself, runs from my wrist to my shoulder.
Luckily, as I remember now, it will all be fine, it will all be fine. The fingers of my left hand automatically smooth over my wound. I feel my fingers tingling in the presence of my strange and unknown gift of magic. My fingers fly and dance, and then as I take them away, the wound is gone. I smile, knowing that I am probably the only person in the world who knows these tricks.
The second my hand flies back to my side, I hear a creak. I hear more. Seven tall men covered in large, black suits surround me. But I am not afraid. My left hand again flies up, and I sing one swift, high note. Wind, in strong gusts and blows surrounds me, so I know I am protected. But a large man barrels through the winds and pulls down my hand. The wind stops. The men stare stupidly at me, as if I were some circus lion with a hunched back and a fierce spirit. I just smile. I know that I can take them down in one blow easily, but I have to make the large man holding my good hand to let go. I have to wait.
And as I wait, they stop. They stare. How could such a tiny girl overtake them? I am invincible. They know that. They are afraid. My strange, purple eyes bore into the man holding me. They flash; they gleam with power, as my own magic pulses into every vein in my body. He falls back, stunned, and lets go. The men crowd around me, but do not dare to touch me. Smirking, I raise my left hand, my good hand, my strong hand, and I sing.
The first note is soft and gentle, crooning as a mother would to her child. It seeps into the men’s brains and encircles them with empty memories of love and hope, of cradles and their mothers’ hands. They drift and float and dance, as if in a stupor. I gently guide them; guide them with my song of sweet, listless joy, out of my prison.
Once we leave the room, I stop singing. I know this is a mistake as soon as the last notes leave my lips. The men lurch, as if they are cats, waking up from a dream, and finding a mouse sleeping by their side. The men attack.
My arms are pulled down to my sides and wet, sweaty fingers cover my mouth. I try to fight back but I fail. If only my left hand was free! Then I could fight. I suddenly think of my teacher’s words. A spy will always fairly fight another one. This is not fair. I keep struggling but I am still no match for those sweaty, greasy hands. Another creak sounds then. My opponents stop fighting, but their grips are still as strong as ever. As I am held down, I cannot see who has entered. All I see are large feet clad in black boots. The leader of this mob who has captured me, as I guess.
“I know who you are, Diana.”
I am startled. How does he know my name? Who is this man? Then it all comes back to me. My training, I am a trained spy, you know. This was my father’s classmate in training, Edmond Duvall. But when he learned that my father was more powerful than him, they became enemies. Long story short, it’s kind of like the classical enemy-to-good-guy thing. But this is more than that. Edmond is on the hunt for my father. He knows a couple tricks himself.
He proves this to me as he lifts his right hand and he sings one note, as always. The note is gruff and low. If only I could fight back! I know this very song. It is the song of earth, the song to make any object rise and fall at the will of its commander. It is the song of flight, and I know who it is directed at.
The sleeve of my nightgown cuts into my arm and the dress shapes out my body as I rise into the air. My long red hair streams around my face, blinding me as the men let go of me, shocked. I wonder if they know that their king has this power. I smile to myself then. My left hand is free. I try to raise it, but the song holds me down with its magic. Slowly but surely, I reach into myself to find that small flame of magic, and I sing one note without my hand raised. I am inexperienced with this type of power; I have only tried it once because it is dangerous. My raised hand gives me control, but while I sing like this, even if I sing as high as a note of water or as low as one of fire, anything could happen.
But I sing. I sing of the winds and the rain, the thunder and the lightning. I sing a thunder clap to shake his ears like the cry of an eagle. Instead, water flows up five and a half feet high. The large men gurgle and sputter, they very obviously cannot swim. But Edmond holds his ground. He is taller than the water, but I know that it chills him to the bone. His magical grip on me loosens, but it is still there. I try with all my might to raise my left hand but he is too strong for me.
CLAP! For a moment I cannot tell what this sound is but then my shock fades away. I am free. I am floating on the surface of the water but I am free. My left hand flies up and, treading water, I sing out my thunder clap. Feeling my anger surge through me. He has no right to do this. No right! But he doesn’t care. He and his other spies are a mob of bloodthirsty brutes. I hate them. And him.
“Edmond Duvall, I remember you! I will!” I scream, then with my magic, I vanish into the morning.
I don’t know where I am, though. I am in water still. I have gone nowhere. Anger doesn’t help magic, it only hinders, I remember my teacher saying. I calm down. I calm down. I am calm.
I sing the note again. I still go nowhere. He is stronger than me. I am not strong enough, I think. But how can I not disappear?
Soon I hear another note. Edmond’s song hangs in the air, and then dies. The water vanishes. I see his face then. It is bony and old and ugly. I see his blue eyes, gleaming with power. Then I see nothing.

My eyes open and I know. I know it is gone. The shock is still there, so it doesn’t hurt, but I know. There is an absence somewhere in my soul. The little flame inside my chest has burned out. Someone singed the candle flame. I reach inside to find it, to make sure it hasn’t hidden somewhere, but it has gone out. It is over. It is gone. I am only half of me, some strange soul cramped in another’s body. Without my magic, I am no longer whole. I pull my knees up to my chest and lay my head on them. I don’t even look at the dank room that I’m kept captive in. I let out all my feelings of dark and cold and captivity. The tears steam out of my empty, purple eyes. I can’t even taste the salt. I just cry.


Purple Eyes
“Move her!” The noise comes suddenly, slashing my memories of practicing, watching. “I said, move her! She is useless.”
Two men in black suits lift me up. I flop like a rag doll. I am empty. I don’t care. Don’t care about Edmond, about the men, about anything. I fall into my dreams as they carry me to the outside.
I fall. They have dropped me. I don’t like to be dropped. I raise my left hand. My clear, sweet voice pours from my lips. Nothing happens. Why does nothing happen? Why is there no breeze to make the men trip and fall themselves? Why?
Then I remember. It is gone. The power has left me. I fall again, the men smirk, and leave me there. I sit in shock, as if I have found it out all over again.
“Hey, ya’ lost?” A boy squats down beside me. He is no more than fifteen, my age.“You lost?” he asks again. I try to answer, but I start to cry. I really am empty, but I must be myself. I must cope.
“Yes,” I manage to mumble.
“Hey, stop crying. What’s wrong?” He rests his hand under my chin. As he sees my eyes, his own green ones widen, but he doesn’t say anything. “Come here, come on.”
“Alright.” I smile as he keeps staring into my deep purple eyes.
He can’t resist. “You have purple eyes,” he blurts out, stating the obvious.
“Yes, I do.”
“They’re pretty,” he whispers.
Pretty? No one ever says that.
The boy blushes. “Come on, I’ll take you where you can lay that sad head of yours.” He hesitates. “I’m Mica.”

Ahh, young love.

Saturday, November 21, 2009

the facts of life

“I want shields for the innocent,
Strength for the small,
I would like hope for the weary,
And love for us all.
If we can’t see past our differences,
Hide them from sight,
So there will be peace for the children
On this Holiday night.” 

           —The song “Gifts for the World”
Our world is so beautiful, such a wonderful place, so full of sadness. War. Suffering. When I look back on our history, it makes me cry. All we need are
And Woven Hope

Woven Hope

Cherished by your soul
The last to die
A candle
Flickering on
Hidden away
Until it is needed
When the fire comes
When the loved ones
Are gone
That spark
Still burns within you
The music of rage
Mingle with the tears
Of what is to come
Holding on to
The last of painful memories
Searching inside
For that tug
That pull of the loom
Weaving into you
What saves you
From your fears
As you sleep
Your dreams find you
Your last
Woven hope

I have a challenge for you.
Put all you can into making your life and the lives of those around you more beautiful.
Laugh. Love. Give.
Live life to the fullest—there’s only this, only here, only now.
Find your own woven hope.
Tell the truth, tell others.

Monday, November 16, 2009

more on mars

Sick today. This time, though, it's more than...
Sore throat. Ackkk! Igg! Mumble.
I'm sure you want to know what happened at school. The aliens, you know. Ha-ha. I can stall for as long as I want. Hee-hee. (I get either really evil or sweet like honey when I'm sick, now I'm evil. Mwa-ha-ha-ha!)

Oh!! My house smells so good! My housemate loves to cook. He just made chocolate-chip cookies. They smell really good, although I haven't tried them yet. Yummy!

Fine. I feel your pain. I'll start just about where I left off.

The Day I Met an Alien...
...I learn why when we all go to Homeroom. The second my classmates and I walk in, we scream in horror. Our Homeroom teacher, Mrs. Sesber, is a very sweet and nice old lady. Now, her skin is blue, and snow white gills, too bright to look at, flap from her ears like a fish. She also wears an outfit like someone in private school twenty years ago. Apparently, she thinks we all should, too. Mrs. Sesber (if I can even call her that) starts lecturing and yelling at us in a high, squeaky voice like a mouse shouting at the top of its lungs, unpleasantly, except louder. It's not pretty. For the entire fifteen minutes of Homeroom, my class cowers in our seats. Some cover their ears, while others scream themselves, although they do it with terror.
When we can finally leave that room, we all rush to the principal's office an knock on her door to tell he that an alien is in the school. She walks out, and we forget our message and run away. Our principal is an alien, too! We barely had time to look at her, but I think one glance at her warty, pink, fingernails told us the truth.
After that, we mill about in the hall, too afraid to go to Science, our next class. I am reading a book when Jo-Ann suddenly shouts, at the same time that the bell rings for us to switch classes, "Kelsey, RUN!" I look up automatically and see another alien. This one isn't scary, though. She has a normal skin tone, but I can tell it has a tint of green. Her lavender hair is piled on her head in a fancy bun. She wears a 60's yellow prom dress, which looks amazing on her. Before she even tells us our name, I recognize this as my favorite teacher, our Math teacher. He name is Mrs. Elsie, and she is so nice. She walks up to us and says,
"You are late for Math, children. I will explain everything to you there." She walks toward our Math class and we obediently follow her, hypnotized, until we get to the room. When we sit down she does explain everything.
"Children, this is why all your teachers are looking and acting so different today. They are really and truly aliens. You are really and truly aliens, I am really an alien, they are really aliens, but I will explain this in detail soo--"
"Yes, I knew it!!" shouts a boy named Harold, and we all laugh.
Mrs. Elsie chuckles, then continues, "I'll explain it soon. Your teachers have just chosen to show you our true forms. We should have warned you, but do not get scared, we will all be normal tomorrow, we just wanted you to know. Now, who knows what 235 multiplied by 6 is?" I raise my hand immediately.
The teachers all become their human selves again the next day. We have a wonderful day, and life goes on, but we all know a little secret.
Happy ending! So sweet! Now I'm going to get one of those cookies.

Sunday, November 15, 2009

the martians are coming!

Announcer: This holiday season, the Martians will be coming to your very own school!
Person: Run for your lives!
Person: Help...[faints]
Kelsey: I'll attempt to recount the day.
The Day I Met an Alien
Dear Diary,
This would be the day that I met several aliens:
I get out of bed, rubbing my eyes. What a strange dream, I think. I dreamt that my teachers actually turned into aliens. How strange. I mean, I know there are lots of kids who think their teachers are aliens, but I'm so not one of them. I'm a really smart kid, and I love school and all my teachers. When I grow up, I even want to be a math teacher. So why I had a dream like that, I don't know.
The yellow school bus screeches at my stop. With my bag slung over my shoulder, and my lunch box swinging from my palm, I get on the bus. Everything seems normal. Perfectly normal. I forget my dream almost automatically, sitting next to my best friend, Jo-Ann.
Jo-Ann looks frightened. Her face has a greenish tint to it and her long, thin mouth is folded into a large frown. "What's wrong?" I ask. She starts shaking and tells me that she went to sleep on the bus and had a terrible dream. It was about our teachers becoming gruesome aliens. I remember my dream last night. I don't tell Jo-Ann, but I wonder.
When the bus stops at school, everyone gets off slowly and mills about, not like the usual stampede. I look around and everyone seems sick. So, I ask why. They tell me that they all had a nightmare about some of the worst aliens they had ever imagined becoming their teachers. "Math teacher...was green, pimply monster...purple snakes in her hair...like Me-Me-Medusa," answered a short boy named Roger in a very shaky voice.
"Mr. Giddy," our science teacher, "was dressed like Elvis Presley. He had pink hair and blue teeth. Hi voice sounded like rocks falling on your head, and gave you a headache that hurt just as much," said a girl called Veronica, shuddering. Now I am truly getting sacred. Why would everyone have this weird dream?
I learn why when we all go to homeroom. The second me classmates and I walk in, we scream in horror.

Wow, I love the satisfaction of leaving you hanging. (Evil laugh)

Saturday, November 14, 2009

big cheeks

Remember giant cheeks? (Hint: Look down!)
Yup. That's her.
Rosie doesn't even read yet (although she's starting to, I'm so excited!!), so she can't write great works of art, but I'm sure she will, so I'm writing a story for her. About her.

Baby Butterflies
Rebecca and Penny loved butterflies. They were purple and blue and pink, and they fluttered around their heads. But best of all, when butterflies were little, they were fairies. Rebecca and Penny loved fairies.
They stepped out of the big, yellow bus as she came home from kindergarten. Rebecca was so excited about telling her mom that there was going to be a field trip at school to the Butterfly Garden. Butterflies were her favorite thing in the world, except fairies, of course. The little girls hoped with all their hearts that there would be baby butterflies.
"Becky! Penny! Hey, Sweeties. How was your day?" their mom waved to them from the car.
"Mommy! Mommy! We get to go on a field trip to the Butterfly Garden tomorrow! Can you believe it?" shouted Rebecca, running to her mom.
"Oh, Sweetie, that's great!" Rebecca's mom smiled.
The two hopped into the car. They buckled up and stared out the window, watching carefully for a colorful flash of wings, anticipating the next day.
Rebecca stepped into her place in line as her class waited for the bus to come. She whispered to her sister, Penny,
"What do you think it'll be like there?"
"I think that the butterflies will be so beautiful," Penny whispered back with a sigh. The bus pulled up and there was a mad scramble for seats. Penny and Rebecca sat together in the front row. They waited and waited, staring out the windows.
"We are here!" yelled their teacher. Again, there was a mad scramble to get out. Penny and Rebecca were the first ones inside the big, tropical butterfly room. They ran ahead to see the blues and greens and yellows. They ran ahead to look for tiny wings, tiny flowers. But the girls found nothing. No tiny fairies were to be found. When would they ever get to meet a flower fairy if not now? Penny started to get worried, but Rebecca was convinced that there were fairies here. She ran around the room, towing Penny behind her.
"Come on! They're here, I know it!" she told Penny. They searched and searched until there was only fifteen minutes before the girls had to leave.
Suddenly, Rebecca heard a voice. "Here! Over here! I'm the one with the purple wings!" it said.
"Penny, I heard one!" Rebecca exclaimed.
"Heard what?" asked Penny.
"A flower fairy! Duh!"
"Let's look for it!"
"It's the one with the purple wings!" The girls dashed off in search of their prey.
"Penny, over here!" yelled Rebecca. She had found a flower fairy. Penny ran over to see a tiny winged girl. Her hair was white, with a tint of purple that matched her dark lavender wings.
"My name is Lavender," stated the fairy briskly. "What's yours?"
"Well, my name's Rebecca, and hers is Penny," answered Rebecca.
"Oh, no! That won't do! You have to have proper names. Flower names," corrected Lavender in her tiny voice. "What are your favorite flowers?"
"A rose," said Rebecca automatically.
"Well, mine is a poppy. Like the one's that put Dorothy to sleep," continued Penny.
"Perfect," said Lavender. "Rebecca, your name is now Rose. Penny, you are now Poppy."
"Cool!" they both said at once.
"Listen," said Rose, "could we take you home? We have a very pretty garden and I could set up a room for you."
"That actually sounds nice. I don't like it here much. It's the same every day. People come in, they stare, they go out. But I like you two. There's only one problem, could I take some friends with me?" chattered Lavender.
"Absolutely!" yelled the excited girls, smiling. "We'll take you home."
The End

Rosie's dream life. Fairies! Butterflies!

Funny faces!

Friday, November 13, 2009

making an author out of 6

This will be the one and only post containing a story that yours truly didn't write. I feel alright about that, I guess, but my nieces, Sadie and Rosie, who are Alana's children, desperately begged me to post. But, I mean, how could you resist this?
I know. Adorable. You'll see more of Rosie later.
Anyway, Sadie is a little writer herself. Maybe she'll start her own blog someday...

Ghost Spy... so far
By Sadie C. with very little help from Maia V.
Chapter One
Thunder boomed and lightning flashed. I put my head under the covers. I looked at my clock. It was 12:00 at night. I tried to go to sleep but I couldn’t. I stayed awake thinking. I couldn’t get Mom, Dad or Stacey to be comforted.
I heard footsteps in the hall. I peeked behind the door. Nobody was there. I went to my bed thinking, who could have made those footsteps? I looked out the window. Nobody was there, either. The sun was starting to rise. Soon Dad would have to get up for work and Stacey and I would have to get up for school. Now it was 3:30 in the morning. The same question went over and over again in my mind, who could have made those footsteps?
It was now 4:30. 5:30. 6:30. Time to get up for school. I could hear Dad opening his and Mom’s door. And I could hear his footsteps in the hall. Unlike the footsteps I had heard last night.
All of a sudden I heard my Dad’s voice. “Juniper!”
“I’m coming Dad,” I said. I went into the bathroom and brushed my teeth. I walked to Stacey’s room and opened the door. I walked in and said, “It’s time to get up, Stace.”
She stirred. “I’m coming, Juniper,” she said.
I knew that she was lying. The thing I know is that the most important thing to Stacey is sleeping. But I think it’s plain dumb.
I put on a blue fancy short-sleeved dress and tied the sash at its waist. It was a hot day so I didn’t put on any socks. I put two rainbow strands of beads around my neck and two green butterfly earrings on my ears. Then I braided my hair into two ropes hanging next to my ears and walked down the hall to the stairs. I could smell Mom’s fresh bacon and eggs. Stacey was not there yet. I beat her to the kitchen.

She's six. Six years old. Could you write like that when you were six? I think she's really amazing. Also, I just want to note that the line in bold, my favorite line, was all written by Sadie. Just amazing. I'm dumbfounded.

I swear, she's going to become and author.

Thursday, November 12, 2009

november frost-flu

"Doctor, Doctor, I'm sick! Sick of the cold. today I had to run around to keep myself warm."
"Doctor, Doctor, I'm sick! Sick of sickness. Everyone has a cold. Everyone has the flu."
"Doctor, Doctor, what do I have? How am I sick?"
"Well, you have a serious case of...


Any of you out there have...


too? Too cold! Too freezing!
I had some yummy gingerbread today, though. Alana made it. Speaking of Alana, read her blog. Her gingerbread is so good, that it's a remedy for the incurable...


If you're on of the daring people who wants to bake only the best gingerbread of all time, the most phenomenal gingerbread, I'm sure the recipe will be here soon:
Try the yummyness.
By the way, if you do have...


but you don't want to or don't like to bake the most wonderful gingerbread ever, then this will help cheer you up.
O, Spring-eo! O, Spring-eo! Where for art thou, Spring-eo? Shall I write, or shall I speak at this?
Signs of Spring
Flowers gently peeping up
Like a bird
From a maple
Reaching to the clouds
Ready for adventure
Ready to softly fly
On wings of wind
In the cool
Morning air
Crisp and sweet
The smell of the crocus
Who's flying
Higher than ever before
With me
And looking
For the friends
The signs
Of spring

Just try the gingerbread.

Wednesday, November 11, 2009

two tigers

Where did we leave off?
Oh, right, Tilli was lost, and scared, and lonely.

Tilli and a Trillion Stars
Chapter Three
A Trillion Stars
Tilli was scared, very scared. She had wandered off from Lilly Hollow about an hour ago. She had walked and played, not at all looking at her surroundings. Tilli didn't have a clue where she was. She had, as she always did when she went exploring, that she was near Lilly Hollow, which was near home.
While Tilli tried to find her way out of the woods, Tinnia, Daddy Tilnor, and Mama Tilsa were all trying to find their way in. "Tilli! Oh, baby, where are you? Come home!" yelled Mama Tilsa's frantic voice.
"TILLI! Come on!"
"Come HOME!"
"Tilli, oh Tilli, come home!"
They all yelled at the top of their lungs, as loud as they could. The family scared birds off their perches, and ordered the tiny ants to scoot and run wherever they could, in all directions, making way for the stampede of tigers coming through. But no one answered. They searched until it was dark, but they always kept a careful eye on where they were, so they wouldn't get lost.
As the sun set behind the clouds, the tigers were ready to go home, feeling sad and scared. They turned, and, before they took a step, the sky blazed and shone and shimmered and sparkled, and a trillion stars shot across the sky.
"This has only happened once before, right?" whispered Tinnia.
"Yes, dear," answered Mama Tilsa quietly. "An only during the birth of the great, first tiger."

Chapter Four
North, South
At the same time that the sun set and the sky turned black where Tinnia, Mama Tilsa, and Daddy Tilnor were, the sky also turned black where Tilli was. And at the same time that a trillion stars shot across the sky where Mama Tilsa, Tinnia, and Daddy Tilnor were, Tilli saw a trillion stars, too. But when Tinnia, Daddy Tilnor, and Mama Tilsa heard the voice that was deep and booming loud say, "Walk due exactly South, follow this star," at this a huge, white star appeared in the South sky, "and you will find your daughter!", Tilli heard different. She heard a lighter, more softly spoken voice say,
"I am Trillion, the great tiger,"
"The great tiger," whispered Tilli.
"Go straight toward the brightly shining, blue star." Tilli's gaze drifted North, and she saw a dark blue star, "Soon, you will find your parents, then go East, and you will reach Lilly Hollow. Go, before the true night comes! Go!"
Tilli started running to that star in the distance. She ran to find her family.
Soon, Tilli saw a tree that looked a bit familiar. "Maybe I'm getting closer to Lilly Hollow," she whispered to herself. She kept passing more and more familiar places, until she got to the point where she could almost recognize everything she saw.
Meanwhile, Tinnia, Mama Tilsa, and Daddy Tilnor were having a problem. They didn't recognize a thing. But no matter what, they kept going South.

Chapter Five
It turned out that Tilli had been walking next to Tinnia, Mama Tilsa, and Daddy Tilnor for almost ten minutes. Tilli soon turned around to see her family, and they ran to each other, reunited.
After that, when they were all in the living room, drinking hot cocoa, Mama Tilsa announced something.
"I'm going to have a baby!" she said proudly, "That's why I wanted you to come before dinner, I was going to tell you."
Tinnia and Tilli were completely surprised.

In a couple weeks, Mama Tilsa had the baby. Well, actually, babies, she had twins. Their names were Tilila, and Tiloo. They were just as curious as Tilli.
The End

That is how I picture tigers.

Tuesday, November 10, 2009

tigers for a 7 year old

How do you describe a tiger?
Many people in vision a tiger chases you and you run at top speed and then it suddenly catches you in it's jaws! That's an answer for some people.
Other people think of house cats. Big, striped, fluffy, cuddly house cats.
Still more see zoo cages or circus rinks.
I see this.

Tilli and a Trillion Stars
A trillion stars shot across the sky during midnight. Everyone everywhere in the world could see those stars. But in one tiny plain, in one tiny country, there was one tiny tiger who saw those stars as he took his first breath, and opened his eyes. His name was Trillion.

Chapter One
Do Tigers Ask Questions?
"Tilli! Come here Tilli!" yelled Tinnia Trillion the tiger loudly.
"Coming, Tinnia, coming," answered Tilli, Tinnia's younger sister, loudly. But, of course it would be a llong time until Tilli came. Tilli was interested in everything and anything. As soon as she saw one single type of bug she had never seen before, she had to be curious. She had to find out more.
Tilli could be interested in the sun. "Why does the sun look red and yellow and orange?" she would ask to her father, Daddy Tilnor.
"Because the sun is hot, very hot, and hot colors are red and yellow and orange," he would answer.
Tilli could be curious about herself. She would ask, "Mama Tilsa, why do we have noses?"
"So we can smell," her mother would answer. "Go and play now."
The problem was, the more Tilli learned, the more she didn't undersand, and the more Tilli understood, she wanted to know more. Tilli would ask questions that everyone knew the answer to. She would ask questions that no one knew the answer to. She would ask questions made up of words she didn't even know. But it was always questions, questions, questions. That's what Tilli was.

Chapter Two
Lilly Hollow
Tinnia waited outside Tilli's little exploring place, "Lilly Hollow". she didn't think it would take Tilli this long. But of course Tilli didn't come out. After fifteen minutes, Tinnia went in to check, just to make sure Tilli was alright. Tilli wasn't there. Tinnia knew Tilli well, and she thought that she had just gone exploring a little in the woods. She'll be back soon, thought Tinnia. I'll just wait here.
But Tilli didn't come. Finally, Tinnia went into the woods to check. "Tilli! Tilli! Tilli, come here!" she called, but Tilli didn't come."Tilli!" yelled Tinnia again as loud as she could. But Tilli didn't come. Tilli was gone.
Frightened and worried, Tinnia ran home to Daddy Tilnor and Mama Tilsa about Tilli. They were just as scared as she was.
Meanwhile, Tilli was exploring deep in the woods and having a marvelous time. She was investigating flowers, poking at bumblebees, and playing with ants. Once, as Tilli was exploring a flower, a trapped bee and come up from collecting nectar and pollen and had stung Tilli's nose. "Ouch!" yelled Tilli.
"Serves you right for trapping me in that flower!" yelled the bee curtly, and he flew away.
It was then, as she was tendind to her nose, that Tilli looked uo and saw her surroundings. She realized that she didn't know where she was.
"Hello!" Tilli called to the bee, to anyone. There was no answer.

Don, don, don!

Monday, November 9, 2009

IDentity II

I have nothing to say, so I'll write.
p.s. before you read this, you should probably read "my identity".

December 17th, 1991 12:00
Mama said that I should write in this journal every day. I forgot about it. Just last night, I found it under my bed. Just now, I figured out that it was a journal. So, um, I guess I’ll start writing. I can’t sleep, it’s the perfect time.

The streetlights flickered, shimmered, and blinked out as the new day arose. Slowly, the tiny Montreal street awoke, and the baker stepped down from her apartment to change the “closed” sign to “open”. Here, time had never changed. The newspaper boy flew down the street on his bike, flinging papers every which way and shouting out the headlines. He stopped as he saw the young girl walking on the sidewalk, staring through the baker’s window, her hands in her pockets. The newspaper boy swore that he had seen her in the orphanage, the one who could cook.
I watched the sign, watched the customers come and go, but most of all I studied the add on the side of the bakery window. “HELP NEEDED,” it said. I needed work, to get money, to be able to be confident that I would be alright. Maybe I could even take the train to Boston! Confident in myself, I pushed the door open. The tiny shop smelled like bread and wheat and what I thought could even be spices and nuts. The pastry cabinet in front of the desk was full of croissants, baguettes, bread fresh from the oven, cakes, pies, sweets, and everything I could imagine that could possibly be imaginable. The aroma was irresistible, and even I knew that the cooks in the orphanage always wanted me to bake, and everyone their loved my pastries. I knew that this would be my job until I had enough money to get to Boston. I knew.
“Voila, voila, voila!” yelled the baker. It was normal to hear French in this city, I knew it quite well. But for once, this woman’s voice actually fit her personality. She was roly-poly. Not fat, roly-poly. I remember her hugs. They were like big, warm blankets covering you in the winter, a warm fireplace. She always had flour on her fingers and in her hair. Her name was Jacqueline, and she had grown up in France, in a little town outside of Paris. Jacqueline took me in right away, gave me room and board, too. I think, in the end, when I left, she gave me some of her money out of her own pocket. Jacqueline.

Some Frenchwoman, eh?

Sunday, November 8, 2009


Sunsets bring joy.

They flicker, they spark, they glide. Sunsets feel like the sun is hiding behind the hills, just beyond reach, just beyond sight, but still reaches its rays out toward you, warming you for these last few moments of light.

You have to cherish that moment when the sun reaches out to touch your fingertips. You have to reach back. You have to touch.

You have to love.


The Kitty Acting Troupe: The tiger-striped, Beauty. The orange, Leo. The gray, Isis.

Maia: Well, I'm back again. Back to writing too much. Much too much. But, I have to say, I just read my friend Madi's blog and I love her idea. Madi, thank you, I hope I'm not being too much of a copycat.

The Kitty Acting Troupe
Leo, playing himself
Isis, playing herself
Beauty, playing herself

Copycat: The Life of My Kitties
Isis [waking up]: Hey, Leo, you awake? You'd better be.
Leo: Yeah. I guess I'm awake. [yawns]
Isis: Well, if you are awake, then help me wake up Maia! She has to play with us.
Leo: Why don't we wake up that fat cat, the one who hisses?
Isis [with an English accent]: Hmm, I say, that is a brilliant idea.
Leo: Great!
[they paw at the closed door until it opens just enough for them to slip out]
Leo: Now, where's Fat Cat?
Isis: I dunno. Leo, I'm starting to get a little scared. Fat Cat is so much bigger than us. Sometimes she's kinda mean, you know.
Leo: It's alright, Maia will protect us.
Isis: Uh, yeah, that's the problem. Maia's asleep.
Leo: Oh, right. But think--if we play a trick on Fat Cat, then we could become the rulers of the world!
Isis: Oh, cool!
Leo: See? Now let's find her.
Isis: I'll check in the room across the hall--Maia's Mommy and Daddy's room.
Leo: K. I'll check in the bathroom.
Leo and Isis: Move! Hut, two, three, four! Hut!
Isis [in Maia's parents' room]: Leo! Mission accomplished! She's sleepin' in between the two people!
Leo [running in]: Sweet!
Isis: How do we play a trick on her?
Leo: I dunno yet. Let's start by waking her up.
Isis: Got it.
[they walk up to the sleeping Beauty]
Leo and Isis: Wake up, Fat Cat!
Beauty [half asleep]: Food?
Isis: She wants to eat us! Plan B! Plan B! Retreat!
[they run to the door]
Isis: What are we supposed to do? She wants to eat us!
Leo: Um, you could play with her tail to wake her up and I'll distract her.
Isis: You sure it will work?
Leo: Yes. Move!
[they march back]
Isis [playing with Beauty's tail, whispering]: This will work, this will work.
Leo: Hey, Fat Cat! Over here!
Beauty [groggy, but awake]: Food?
Leo: Don't eat me, oh Great One! I am not a sacrificial meal, I am your servant.
Beauty [alert]: Food?
Leo: Hmm. You know, I like food, too. Isis, retreat! Let's wake up Maia, and make her feed us. Fat Cat is right, very right.
Isis: But what about becoming rulers of the world?
Leo: Let's save that for a rainy day. C'mon.
Isis: K.
Beauty: Food?
The End

Maia: Applause for the Kitty Acting Troupe, please, applause!
[applause, bows]
Everyone: THANK YOU!
Isis: Thank you!
Leo: No, thank you!
Beauty: Thank...food?


Good morning! (Little happy smiley face.) What, not so awake? Me neither. I got 12 hours of sleep last night and my body is so used to sleeping that I'm still tired. Quite tired.
Anyway, I had a dream last night.

Dreaming Below the Moon
I lie awake
And wait
For sleep to come
The curtains brush aside
To reveal
The glimmering shadow
Of crystalline stone
The moon's face
The smiling bedtime story
Sings a lullaby
To rock
All the tired children
To sleep
As I gaze
One more time
At the glistening sphere
My friend
Carefully wills
My starlight soul
To rest beneath
Its shining warmth
And to dream below
The moon

Sleep. Zzzzzz. Dreams.

Saturday, November 7, 2009

hyperactive hyperlinks

Just to tell you...

1. I just wanted to say that if you want to laugh, then you can read a blog that my friend Madi and I started today. So funny!!!!

2. If you want to read more funnieness (Is that even a word?), then go to http://www.2funny-liliejane.blogspot.com/ to read Madi's indavidual blog. Two funny!!!!

3. My sister, Alana, has been writing a blog for a very long time, and, if you didn't find my blog by mistake, then you probably already know about it, but if you like food, and really, really, good writing, go to http://www.eatingfromthegroungup.blogspot.com/ and read one amazing blog.
Just wanted to give you these, and I reccomend them all.

gardening sisters

Deal with the bug. I think it's pretty. Therefore, um, deal, yeah, deal with the green caterpillar thingy. I held this thingy, you know. That was the same day I ate a whole clove of garlic. No, I'm not kidding.
Oh, gosh... I'm writing too much and Leo's sitting on my lap, trying to type himself or...? Who knows what he wants to do. Am I writing too much? I mean, it's my first day of being a blogger and having a blog, so I guess I'm just really excited. I'm boring you, right? Speaking of people (maybe) boriner34, sorry, that was Leo, boring other people, here we go.

Summer Swinging Trilogy
Book One: Bare Feet...so far

Summer vacation. Nothing to do. I have no camps, no summer sports, I definitely don’t have summer school, and even my dance lessons are off. Boring!
Anyway, my name is Summer. Summer Kay Wood. I’m 13 years old and next year I’ll be in 8th grade. I am an only child, although I wish I at least had a cat, but Mom is allergic. My mom is a teacher, and she teaches summer school, too. That puts Mom out of the picture. As for Dad, he’s never around at all. He’s an actor, so he travels a lot. He used to come home a lot for the summer and the weekends. But now, Dad’s on Broadway for the whole summer. I know I should be proud of him, but I’m actually kind of angry. I miss him and whenever (rarely) we get to talk on the phone, he’s, well, dismissive. Sometimes I wonder if he’s going to divorce Mom. If he’s—with someone.
My only condolence this whole summer is my garden. I garden. Everything I grow is absolutely organic, and because I grow it at home, it’s totally local. I just like to get my hands and feet dirty, you know, to get my mind off my troubles. One rule in my garden, you can never, ever, ever wear shoes in the dirt. Bare feet only. Period.
Back to boring. You probably don’t want me to talk about how stupidly boring this summer is, do you? So why are you reading this? Are you somewhere out there reading a book outside in your hammock because there’s nothing else to do? In that case, don’t. Go work in your garden and forget this book about a boring girl during a boring summer. Bye.
You’re still here. Do you even have a garden? In that case, go…to…you aren’t going to go are you? O.K., I guess I’ll just talk you through this nightmare starting with rules. I like rules. They structure my life so when this is a time of no structure, it’s nice to just have rules.

· As you already know, never wear shoes in the garden.
· Always make your gardens organic, it’s yummier and better for you.
· Grow flowers in your garden, too.
· Put a tarp on your compost or put it in a compost bin so you can use the healthy nutrients for your plants once it becomes soil.
· If you get a garden, learn how to cook. Cooking makes everything better.

See, rules are awesome. No, seriously, they inspire awe. No? oh, well. They do that for me.
So does gardening. In bare feet.

That's Bare Feet so far. Who knows where it will go next.

Speaking of gardening, I have a sister who loves to garden, and to cook, and to write. For those of you who don't know me, but have heard of Alana, who writes "Eating from the Ground Up", well, she is my sister. Just letting you know. Know that I gotta go!

be full of purr

Be Full of Purr
The empty stay
Is so sad
And more gray
Is only bad
I want to
Why, where, who
(Our parents can just make dinner late)
Tiger cats
Can only leap
They are no companions
When you sleep
Be full of purr

Cute photos...these are my very own, brand new kittens! The gray one is the girl, Isis, and the orange is her brother, Leo. They are about 10 weeks old, and if you want to see more of them, then email me. They are adorable! Don't you love them?

Thought so.

my identity

I crumple up another piece of paper, stained with ink. Reaching into my drawer, I pull out another, fresh, crisp sheet of normal lined paper, that's it. It speaks to me. Somehow, I know what to do, what to write. The pen on my desk jumps into my hand. Together we write, we speak through thoughts and memories. I write my own story.

Identity..getting started
She was Girl. She was always Girl. Even the birth certificate she had been left with had no name. Her orphanage was not unkind, they just never named her.
The girl loved the name Izabel. She had tried several times to get the other children in the orphanage to call her that. Every attempt failed. It was who she was. Girl. Just Girl.

The bed creaked and moaned. It really wasn’t a bed. It was just some cloth covering hard metal springs. These “beds” were very uncomfortable, and lacked pillows, but the orphanage didn’t have the money for proper beds. She stepped out and the floor creaked again.
The year was 1987, the date December 17th. It was 12:00. All was quiet.

I reached out for bread in the kitchen. I was very hungry, and the trip would take time without a car or train. I needed food.
My bag was packed with the four things that were in my possession: my copy of “A Midsummer Night’s Dream” which I had read 20 times, a whistle, the slip of paper with my date of birth written in a scrawl with black ink, and this little book, with which I will write an account of my journey to Boston, from this little orphanage in Montreal. My old and small home. But a home to me no more.
I was told by the director, called Mother Ann, that I had a sister somewhere in Boston. Why my parents kept my younger sister and not me haunted my thoughts. Why not me? Why so far away? Was there something wrong with me? I later learned that there was something different about me. But you should learn that later, as I did.
Her name was Emerald, Mother Ann told me. Emi [Ee-m-ee], that was what I was sure I would call her when my parents came to find me. But they never came. Emi haunted my dreams until she became just a shadow of hope in my mind. I would think, Issy [I-zz-ee] and Emi, Issy and Emi, Issy and Emi.
I want to be Isabelle. I will call myself Isabelle. But truly, I have no name. You must be thinking that I have some kind of name, surely my parents named me. As I told you before, they did not. I have no identity, nothing to tell my friend who I am. I have nothing. Isabelle is what I want, though, my other comfort every night is to whisper that name to myself. It sounds like the lullaby my mother never sang to me. I miss having a mother. The mother I never knew.

Next, I took apples. They were mushy and mealy, but I would need energy until I found a place to work for money. With my sack about half full, I slipped out of the kitchen and into the hall. At the end of the hall was the door. The door to a new life. A new name. The door that would lead me to my sister and my parents who I loved so much in my mind. I gratefully stepped through that door, into the quiet streets of Montreal, where not even a dog barked. Then and there, my new life had begun.
My pack seemed heavy now. I had never been outside of my orphanage at night. I lived in a city. Anything could happen. I had realized that after the lock on the door clicked. After that, a dog barked. It sounded like a wolf howling to the moon on a night when the sky was on fire. Then a siren sounded. They were coming for me! The police knew! I was caught. It was all over. I would never see Emy. I tasted salt. The tears brought on my doubts. I was scared that this would never work. How could I get to Boston from here? My parents would probably shun me. After all, hadn’t they put me in an orphanage so far away and never given me a name? Suddenly, I wanted to be back in the cold, drafty room snuggled into the threadbare covers on a firm bed. I didn’t care. I wanted to go back.
Then reason came to me. Hadn’t I dreamed about this all my life? Didn’t I want to see Emerald? My face set with a firm courageousness and I wiped away my tears. I would go.

I would blog.