Sneaking Out

A/N: Another assignment from my creative writing class a couple years ago. The prompt was to write story that included the following sentence: "She saw the way that the others looked at her; they knew what she had done."

Nobody would expect Rose to stir up trouble. Sure, she had a hot head, but she wouldn’t do anything extremely rash. To most people, she was just the average teenage girl. They were in for a big surprise when they heard about what she did.

Her friend Cindy invited her to hang out at her mansion on Sunday. Together they sat at the edge of her pool, sipping ice-cold lemonade and chatting unconcernedly. Their toes skimmed the surface of the crystal clear water. Rose had her curly red hair tied up; it was a hot day. She watched lazily as a hummingbird hovered over one of the many bright red flowers in Cindy’s garden. Suddenly, the frenzied barking of dogs reached her ears. The hummingbird flew away, as if it feared for its life. A man’s voice shouted over the dogs, and the sound stopped as abruptly as it had started.

Rose got up and walked in the direction which all the noise came from. She tried peering through the gaps of the great wooden fence, but her view was obscured by tree branches on the other side. Turning around, she asked her friend, “What was that?”

“That barking?” She nodded. “Oh, that was Mr. Wilkes’s dogs. I have a feeling he doesn’t like them that much.”

Rose frowned. “Why not?”

“Well,” she began hesitantly, “he keeps them chained up in front of his house.”

Anger started to flare up within her. “Why didn’t you do anything about it?” She loved animals! How could she just sit there knowing that there were dogs on the other side of the fence that were being neglected?

“We tried!” she said frantically, noticing that Rose’s temper had risen. “My mom and I went over to his house, and we tried to persuade him to see the cruel treatment he’s giving his dogs, but he just told us to go away and mind our own business! We honestly tried. We did everything we could.” Her voice faltered.

“Everything?” Rose spoke so softly that Cindy could barely hear her. “Sorry,” she said, a little louder, “I can’t stay any longer. My mom expects me to be back at five.” She forced a smile onto her face. “I’ll come back on Saturday,” she added apologetically, hoping that it would make up for her sudden burst of anger. It wasn’t Cindy’s fault that she thought she did all that she could. She hurried out the door, quickly saying goodbye before she walked home. She would prove that there were still more ways to do something about the dogs.

“You’re quieter than usual,” her mom commented during dinner. She moodily picked at her food, pretending she didn’t hear her. Ever since Rose got home, her mind kept dwelling on Mr. Wilkes and the abusive treatment of his dogs. Why couldn’t he understand that he should treat them with kindness?

Later that evening, Rose snuck out of bed fully dressed, making sure her parents were sound asleep. Quietly, she tiptoed out of the back door and walked at a brisk pace toward Mr. Wilkes’s house, bringing a pocket knife with her that her dad had given her for her birthday. Compared to Cindy’s mansion, his house looked like a dingy old shack. The gate creaked when she opened it. She saw two dogs, chained to a wooden post. The dogs raised their heads sleepily, the chains clinking softly. Rose let them sniff her, and she slowly ran her knife across the rusty chains, which were easier to cut than she expected. Within a few minutes, the chains broke, and she tempted the dogs with a few scraps of meat. She drew them away from their dreadful prison. When she tried to close the gate behind her, it clanged shut. The noise must have woken up Mr. Wilkes, because lights turned on inside his house. Tossing the scraps of meat across the street, Rose broke into a run, hoping the dogs would eat the meat and run far away. She sprinted back to her house, her long legs carrying her out of sight within seconds. Locking the door behind her, she went back into her bedroom and crawled into bed, exhausted.

Whispers spread throughout school the next day. She saw the way that the others looked at her; they knew what she had done. They knew that it was her who helped the dogs escape, at the risk of getting caught. Some of them looked at her disapprovingly, while others saw her as a sort of hero. How they found out, she didn’t know, but she was sure that Mr. Wilkes didn’t catch a glimpse of her that night.

Cindy caught up to her in the hallway. “I have to admit, what you did was pretty amazing,” she remarked. “It doesn’t matter what other people say. You should be proud of what you did.”

And she was.

American Horror Story: Penguins

You woke up on Saturday morning, wrapped in a cocoon made of sheets and blankets, but your feet felt like they were stuck in a freezer. Why was it so cold? You hastily put on your clothes and peered out the window. You couldn’t believe it. The yard was completely white. Turns out, it had snowed overnight! It never snows here, but today seems to be an exception. Overjoyed, you ran outside, eager to play in the fresh snow. You looked up at the cloudy gray sky, grinning, then tentatively placed a foot into the white patch in front of you. It felt soft, and sank underneath your feet readily. You put your hand into the snow, attempting to grab a handful so you could make a snowball. Something was wrong. The snow didn’t feel cold, and the chunk you were holding wouldn’t break off from the rest of the snow. You yanked it and it finally tore off in a jagged chunk, inspecting it suspiciously. It felt a lot like foam. You then came to the shocking realization that it really was foam. The snow was fake! You angrily stomped through the door and down into the dungeon, clutching the fake snow. You stopped in front of a cell containing a single penguin, shoving the foam in its  face. “You did this, didn’t you?” You accused it, waving the foam in front of its face. It looked up at you innocently, but you wouldn’t be deceived so easily. That penguin was definitely the culprit. “Your friends can’t help you now. I’ve got you locked up, and you’d better tell me who’s been helping you if you wanna live!” It took out a cell phone and called its friends, asking them to bring real snow. You took the phone away from it, assuming that one of its penguin friends smuggled it in, and put it in your pocket. The penguins took an airship from Antarctica carrying 66.6 tons of real snow and brought it to your house. They slowly dumped the whole thing into your yard, causing an avalanche. Satisfied that the penguins had complied with your request, you gladly accepted the snow that fell around you, until the snow formed a giant ice cube, trapping you inside. You were utterly helpless as  you watched the penguins lift you into their airship and take you away to Antarctica.

About Depression

Depression is not the feeling you get when your OTP breaks up.

    It is not a phase that will simply pass by,

    It is not something you can just “snap out of.”

And most importantly,

   Depression is not sadness.

Depression is lying in your bed, staring at the ceiling,

taking hours to gather the strength to accomplish a single task

It used to be so easy,

so you ask yourself, why can’t you get up and just do it?

Depression is the heavy feeling in your chest,

in your arms and in your legs

You’re not quite sure why you feel this way

but it tethers you to your bed,

insisting that you go back to sleep.

Depression is the feeling of emptiness you get

when you realize that the things you once loved

mean nothing to you

Netflix no longer serves as entertainment; instead,

it is a distraction, so you can forget that

you are dead inside.

Depression is staring blankly at your homework,

because the model student whom teachers revered

can not solve a single math problem

You can no longer remember what you learned in class

this year, this week, not even today.

Depression is beating yourself up over the things you can no longer do

because you think you’re getting lazy,

because that’s what people keep telling you:

You deserve to be punished.

Get your shit together.

Depression is wondering if you should just end it all,

to stop being a burden on your family and friends,

so they can stop wasting their time and money on a failure.

They deserve better than this.

This is all your fault.

Sleep now, 

sleep forever.

Depression is a disease that eats you away from the inside.

It is a silent killer that devours the soul,

and takes away the things that make you 

who you are.

And so the empty shell walks among the living.

Oil and Water

A/N: This was written for my creative writing class the summer before freshman year of high school. I'm leaving it the way it was when I submitted it, even though it may be flawed. My writing has improved since then but I'd like to see some feedback on it.

I dipped my brush into the cup and swirled it around, watching the blue paint drift off the brush and dissolve in the water. Drying the brush on a towel, I dipped the tip into a cup of clear water, and let the water wet the green paint. I raised my brush to the canvas and began delicately adding strokes of emerald green. The fresh smell of wet paint reached my nose.

My painting finally began to take shape. I looked out my window at the landscape I was replicating, then back at my unfinished masterpiece, and smiled. I could prove Rose’s statement about watercolors wrong with this painting. Stirring the brush into the cup of blue water, I thought about our argument from a couple of days ago. It didn’t really start out as much of an argument. We were just discussing art, and we somehow disagreed on a certain subject.

“So you’re an artist?” she asked.

“Yep,” I answered, glad that we had something in common.

“What kind of art are you best at?”

“Oh, I don’t know...painting, I guess.”

“Cool! I like to paint as well. I do oil painting. It kinda smells, but it really pays off, because oil painting creates the best works of art.”

“Well, I paint with watercolor. I don’t know why I’ve stuck with it, since there were a lot of cheap watercolor paint sets and I thought that meant watercolor wasn’t that great for experienced artists. Now I’m really good at it, so I dropped that thought.”

“Watercolor? Oh please, a lot of the really famous artists did oil painting, which probably means oil painting is the best kind of painting you can do.”

“Well, that doesn’t mean watercolor sucks!”

“Oh yeah? Where’s your proof?”

“Where’s yours?”

That was how I became determined to prove her wrong. As I selected a darker shade of green to add depth to the bright leaves, I wondered what Rose would be doing right now. Probably trying to prove that she’s right, I thought. I applied gentle strokes to the grass underneath a mighty oak tree, its brown bark still in need of more detail.

The sun had nearly set over the horizon when I finally finished, and I had begun the last third of my painting early this morning, after breakfast. Signing my name in a small corner, I left it on the easel to dry, while I ate dinner. My stomach was growling with hunger. I would go to Rose’s house the next morning to show her what wonders watercolors could do. Tonight, I would get the sleep that I deserved, after a long, hard day of working.

The next morning, I hurriedly ate my breakfast and headed out the door. Rose’s house wasn’t that far away. Blowing gently on my canvas in case it was still wet, I gingerly took it in my hands and held it firmly. The canvas blocked part of my vision, so I couldn’t see the rock that I tripped over. Luckily, my painting didn’t fall out of my hands as I reoriented myself. Quickly brushing the dirt off my jeans, I continued walking, lifting the canvas a little and tilting it so I could see where I was going.

When I spotted Rose’s house, I ran as fast as I could while holding a painting and rang the doorbell with one hand, the other still holding my masterpiece. Her brother, Fred, opened the door. “Hi!” he said. “Are you looking for Rose?”

“Yep. Is she awake yet?” I asked, trying not to bounce around too much..

“I think so. I’ll go get her. Why don’t you come in?”

I entered the house, leaning against the wall. “You can sit down,” said Fred politely, but I shook my head. “I won’t be here long,” I told him. Rose entered the room, and I showed her my painting. “See?” I said triumphantly. “Watercolor can create incredible paintings as well. Who says it has to be an oil painting to be great?”

Rose scowled. She turned around so quickly that her red curls whipped my face. I suppressed my anger, trying to control it while watching her slam the door behind her. Before it closed shut, I caught a glimpse of an unfinished but beautiful oil painting she appeared to be working on. I noticed the brilliant colors of her sunset, and suddenly felt sorry, although not that sorry, since my cheeks were still stinging. I didn’t realize she would take it so hard. Leaving her house without saying goodbye, I sat down under a tree, whose roots were poking out of the earth, and buried my face in my hands. I should’ve known that oil and water don't mix.

Introduction

Hi, everyone! Let of me give you a little info about my blog.

This is where I will post some of my written material, mostly short stories or snippets of something I'm working on. I mostly like to write in the fantasy genre, although I will sometimes explore other genres if an idea presents itself. Many of the stories I will eventually post on this blog will not be in the fantasy genre, as fantasy is difficult to write. I will save that for longer stories.

I don't write fanfiction and I certainly don't plan on doing so. However, I may borrow ideas from books by other authors, so don't get alarmed if I decide to write a story about a bunch of students at Hogwarts. I will  be sure to credit the author and include a disclaimer.

And that's it. I don't know what else I should say. I'll create an About Me page if you want more info. Thanks for stopping by, and I hope you'll stay!