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Words

I find the mere words of mankind incapable of describing the feelings which find root in our beings. For the words of man which fall from the tongue are unable to understand the persistence of the heart. It is in this heart we hold our most precious memories, our brightest smiles, and our most deadly secrets.

It is the key of our minds which keeps these secrets imprisoned with the rest of time in an attempt to erase the past and cover our footsteps. Yet, without a past we would merely be souls holding tightly to the thin strands of the present which are constantly breaking off and disappearing into the expanses of time. From there we look to the future where the permanent fog swirls, threatening us with the unknown. So what else is there to give us base, but the sure past which offers us a place in this world, a place to have been, yet not a place to be? It is a shaky ground which we are given, but one which we must cherish for there is no other.

The human mind cannot control the expanses of time which have always been and will always be, in not a circle but an ever growing ribbon of dates and ages.

Autumn

The leaves are already beginning to change, though it is only ten days into September. The ground is still unmarred by fallen leaves, the green grass contrasting the golden arches of trees. As a child I once mourned this season, crying over the dying trees and praying in earnest they'd come back. It took many years, many cycles of the seasons for me to realize they would always return and eventually die again. I now embrace the season--a time when the whole world is gold; when even the poorest house is blanketed with gold leaf.

The season has become something of a constant for me, a constant of change. Perhaps it is the knowledge that even a loss of summer's perfection can bring about beauty of its own, which creates this feeling of content.

Yet, it is in my short experience that I’ve learned there is a persistent fear of change in human nature. The uncertainty of what will become drives us to cling to what is. In an attempt to freeze our precious moments we overlook a certain fact. It is not the good moments that make us who we are, but those unexpected obstacles which we wish to ignore.

Home

Her eyes were wide as they stared out into the ocean. Her bottom lip began to tremble and she reached out with cold hands to grip the fence that separated her from the churning waters. Something was calling to her, the ocean sung her name. She slowly leaned forward as if tempting gravity to grab hold of her, tempting nature to carry her back to the sea. It was waiting for her to come back to it; it missed her and needed her. Everything would be alright if she could just get back to the sea. Her foot hooked onto the lowest plank of the fence and she felt her other foot leave the ground. A saltwater breeze blew through the air from the 'snot green' sea. It bit at her lip, bitter with despair. The sea was despairing without her. Her foot moved to the next highest plank. Her knees caught the top of the fence as she stood and she balanced precariously on the decrepit fence. She felt like she was flying, the cliff falling beneath her, nothing but air and distant waters crashing against the cliff like soldiers attacking a castle. The waves came to rescue their princess ... her. One last step and she was on the top of the fence. An acrobat on a tightrope, she lifted her arms up to the clouds that circled in the sky above her...she was going home.

Deep

What makes a person deep?
Are we only as deep as we dare to dive
And some choose to stay safe near the surface
Or are we only as deep as the people around us
Are willing to dive
Or is it both?

Author 1 & 2

A writer can play many parts, the bringer of death and life. They decide the weather, they are fate and destiny. A writer creates a new world and creates those who live in that world. And a writer...can control everything about that world. Therefore, a writer is the most powerful person in the world and should not use their power lightly.

She toiled over her work for three years. She wept at their pain, laughed at their joy, and sung with their hearts. She wrote their lives, spread out their deaths upon blank paper…and they burned it all.

A Silence Too Loud

It was sitting there, silent and sturdy, upright and powerful. Its polished wood surface always glistened when the morning sun came in the den window. It was like magic the way the wood sent sparks of sunlight dancing across the green walls. It seemed to reflect the excitement in the girl’s eyes as she watched this show of light.

She cautiously stepped forward afraid to break the magic by stepping into the picture, but the lure of the smooth wood was too much.

Before she knew it she was standing in front of the wooden structure, gazing down at it with awe. Slow she reached her hands down and ran a finger tip across the surface. Catching her finger beneath the lip of the wood she lifted carefully the lid which was keeping the magic closed within the wooden box.

Her lips twisted into a smile as she gazed down at the glowing white and black keys. Hungrily her fingers flew across the keys, lightly touching the cool surface of each one, but not pressing down. Finally her hands had grazed every key and they came to rest in front of her, placing just weight on the keys.

Very slowly they dropped down...nothing. She pressed them harder, her fingers tapping the white surface. The silence surrounded her. Frustrated she slammed her hand down onto the keys. Over and over they crashed down onto the magic box, the one her mother used to sit in front of enraptured, hands moving gracefully and body swaying. Yet, here she was, but the magic still did not come to her. It was as if it had fled from her touch.

She opened her mouth in anger, but the screams she tried to convey fell silent. The silence penetrated even her mind. In one last attempt she pounded her fist down onto the keys doing nothing but moving them down and then back up. The magic was withheld from her, and she slumped over the keys in silent sobs.