The "Accent-dental" Meeting

“I think I’m allergic to essays.”

I couldn’t believe he had the audacity to look in my direction let alone attempt to speak with me. After striding in with ten minutes remaining in class, this red-headed lad passed by the empty row behind me, discarded the vacant row in front of me, and consciously chose not only my row but my seat for himself. It may seem like I’m blowing this situation way out of proportion, but I had been, from the moment my alarm forgot to shrill in my ear that morning, the recipient of a series of unfortunate events. Because one of my housemates had taken a late night shower the evening before, the fleeting hot water that would usually last at least twenty minutes in the morning switched from scorching hot to freezing cold in a span of three minutes. Shampoo foam was growing in my hair like it had a life of its own, reaching its roots down into my eyes and nose. I had no other choice but to stand in the back of the shower like a criminal against the wall before a firing squad and plunge my head into the liquid ice raining down in torrents from the shower head. My moodiness caused by the violent wake-up call was quickly thwarted by the rays of sunshine passing through the window just above my bed in Nilands House. It had rained relentlessly for the past four days, and being an outdoors person, I was craving sunshine to the point of suffering from withdrawals. My temperament was becoming affected by the dreary skies that leaked a rain symbolic of my attitude. But the delicious light beaming onto the hard wooden floor was an instant remedy to my seasonal affective disorder.
  

Virgie: A Woman and Her Heart

“I never fully understood the saying ‘No news is good news’ until the day Johnny wrote me the first letter. Then again, I never thought the saying could have so much impact on me. It dug in deep; so deep that it’s been over forty years and I can almost remember his letter verbatim, not that it was long or anything. I suppose it’s true that when something in your past delivers a direct blow to your life, it remains crystal clear in your memory. Well, the letter was all but four sentences, I think, written in his very sloppy handwriting. I adored the childish touch to his scribbles and loops in his letters. It was so brief, but it was so significant. I believe it ran along the lines of:

My Dearest Virgie,

            I have something very important to tell you. It’s best if we speak in person. Can you meet me by the old barn on the first of next month? Send me your reply as soon as you can.

         Yours faithfully,

                  Johnny

Not so Rude Awakening

It was approaching one in the morning as I sat with burning eyes struggling to stay open. The vibrations of the rocking subway lulled my friend to sleep, causing her head to rest upon my shoulder. I shuddered from the harsh feeling of loneliness despite the contact of my friend who was sitting next to me. It was the silence of the surrounding strangers trapped in a weary mood that was so eerie. The dimly lit subway added to the lethargic stupor, burdening the passengers with heavy eyelids while deepening my solitary oppression. Continual stops allowed a fluctuation of strangers to come and go, like aimless zombies who paid no heed to me. I was simply an observer of a dead world with no one to converse with.

My thoughts were dwelling deeper and deeper on this subject when the arrival of an obnoxious woman interrupted my realm of contemplation. My friend's head lifted from my shoulder and turned towards the object causing the racket. The hypnotic trance possessing everyone was broken. Without passion and talking in a very dull, robotic rhythm, the woman gave a loud speech that was obviously rehearsed and contained random phrases that were an annoyance to the tired ear. She stood like a confident, outspoken child who enjoys the attention of a crowd while maintaining an expression of genuine pleasure which, of course, contrasted greatly with her solemn audience.

Roots of Fire

I admire her beautiful hair. It twists and waves, curling and bouncing all the way down to just below her shoulder blades. It’s full, thick, and healthy yet tangled and untamed, naturally sprawling in all directions, but not in a distasteful manner. I suppose she reminds me of a female warrior somewhat—you know, the one in the stories who boldly challenges the male adversary and always wins renown by defeating him with her strength and cunning. She achieves all of this without forgetting, but rather embracing, the power of her womanhood. Homer discovered it in the soul-consuming sirens since a woman's allure doesn't require sight. They’re distinctly defined by their sex. Yes, self-made heroines; not heroes. Invincible she-champions. And they are naturally beautiful with hair like this girl—stunning because it’s wild. It’s barbaric in a sense.

I wish I could observe her somewhere other than this four-walled class room. I wish I could see her in another world; one not so structured and formulated. I’ve never even seen the whole of her face, and the only chance I get is when she rises from her desk to leave, but then the long strands of her hair sweep over and obscure her features. Besides, the same five girls orbit around her like she has a magnetic attraction. I did catch a glimpse of her right cheek once. It was blemished slightly with a splotch of red reaching out in miniscule veins, but it’s not detrimental to her beauty, I’m sure. Boys are constantly courting her or lusting for her with their goggling eyes. Their voices are mute though, writhing in doubt under the weight of her intimidation. The most attractive girl in our school has endless suitors yet no dates. That is the woe felt by this heroine, but even the mythical goddesses had lovers and feel pangs of solitude, jealousy, and want.

Braving Sorrow

The sun had ceased to bring a warm welcome into his house. It was persistent, nonetheless, in slipping past the two billowy curtains hanging from his bedroom window that just barely swept the wooden floor. Apart from the antique chiffonier supporting a large mirror decorated with draping cobwebs and an aging yellow around the frame, the room was mostly bare except for his small bed and a simple dresser that kept his clothes. His worn down slippers lay beside the bed with flattened heels. As the room drank in the morning sunlight, a weak groan issued from beneath the lumpy blankets on the left side of the bed. Creaking under the weight of an eighty-four year old body, the bed shook as the man slowly, unhurriedly, and most painfully, sat up. One foot, then the other found the cold floor. They didn't budge despite the awful winter chill drifting in from the window.

Every morning proved to be miserable. It took at least an hour just to get the blood circulating vigorously enough through his body, then the stretching process would begin by first extending one knee, the other, one arm, the other, his neck, and a massaging of his hands, legs, and lower back. It had become a routine that was necessary for daily mobility, but he didn't complain much. He flat out refused a wheelchair from his children, half considered a walker, and at the moment, was wishing he had the latter nearby. Setting his hands on either side of him on the bed, he tried to heave himself up, and after five tries, he managed to push himself on his feet and bend over with hands on knees.

Beginning of Snake the Gypsy ch. 3

A Dream Perhaps

I remember days when I could barely walk because my toes were so bloody or my feet were too sore. My legs would cramp up at night and my back would ache intolerably. Even though I was six years old at the time, I had the appearance of an old woman hunched over and holding my back while I dragged along at a slug’s pace.

To continue reading, check out Snake the Gypsy listed in the Pages box to the right.

A Yank in Ireland

"Oh, you're a Yank?" It took me about a month before I was convinced that the term Yank was not an insult, but I still cringe as it's tossed around nonchalantly when friends introduce me to someone new. Suffice it to say some things are hard to get used to, but that's not to say everything is. It has been over a year now since I studied abroad at the National Univerisity of Ireland, Galway, and I still occasionally fall for the leg-pulling that the Irish take pleasure in. The first Irish student I befriended proceeded to persuade me that he thought eskimos and Native Americans were both a myth. This conversation directly followed a lecture we shared titled Native North Americans from Prehistory to Present. Go figure. Since then I've caught on to the straight-faced decieving that the Irish pride themselves in, and I thought that my active filter for fibs would discourage them from continuing, but instead they tend to percieve my constant suspicion as a challenge. Well, as the saying goes, If you can't beat 'em, join 'em. I must admit, the facial expression on the victim's face does make bluffing a hard habit to break.

Coming Soon...

At the moment, I am working on a story about a 7 year old boy named Mitchell who risks his life to save his baby brother by braving the severe weather of his island.. Miserable things happen to Mitchell as he encounters a certain creature of lore that guards the cure to his brother's illness. 

As soon as this story is finished, it will replace this very post. Keep an eye out for it! :)