Hello friends! Almost halfway through January and I haven't achieved the goals I've set for myself, though I've gotten a start. As of Tuesday I'll have two job interviews under my belt. And I went to look at doggies today, and just need to talk to my landlord about getting one. And I'm on here writing so that's a third goal getting worked on.
Tonight I'm in a better mood because I was productive today. It's amazing how doing nothing makes me feel so...flat. I'm also in a better mood because I'm having a doggy sleepover with Kate's darling little dachshund Dali. My cat's don't know what to think of this as they've had three weeks Dali free. But they're dealing. And having Dali here is a treat, I've missed the little pooch!
In regards to the title to this one, while I was home I came across an old binder of mine filled with poems and stories that I'd written in high school. I wanted to share some with all of you, because I'm a writer and we all came from somewhere. Beginnings are important, as nothing would happen without them. I'm transcribing them as they're written, so you all can share in my teenage writing abilities.
PAPER SNOWFLAKES
1997
As the paper snowflakes flutter in the wind, I watch the sky. The storm approaches.
I see the glow of the lightning as it curls and crackles through the darkening night.
The thunder can be heard, very loud. I watch and I am filled with fright.
The wind whips my hair into my eyes, as the glow from the lightning makes the world seem disguised.
I look down to the valley, to the forests and lakes, and far on the horizon, the lightning cuts through the view, striking like snakes.
I see a bolt, a bold and a brave one, strike a tree in the valley.
Fire adds to the night.
As if on my request, a horseman appears. Clothed in dark robes, and holding a spear.
He rides up the valley wall, controlling the steed. Ever so gracefully, they pick up speed.
At the top of the hill, he pulls to a halt. Sitter there, proud, he seems to exalt
the night, the fire, the lightning, the wind. He looks down at me, I look up at him.
He calls my name quietly, but I hear it over the wind. I shake my head slowly, tears in my eyes. He shakes his head and looks up to the sky.
The first raindrops fall, wetting his face. My hair becomes damp as I stare at that face. The anguish, the pain, I try to ignore. But the look in his eyes makes me crave for more. I run to him, he pulls me up on his steed, and away we ride, feeling the speed. I glance back at my home I would never see again, and I watch the paper snowflakes fall, one by one, in the wind.
THE BANJO PLAYER
1997
The man sat as he played the old faded banjo. His tired, bare foot kept time to the beat, tapping on the dirty wood floor.
The warmth from the fire made his dark face glow, but it did not change the expression on it. As it licked the dry wood, he licked his dry, cracked lips.
He could hear the whistle of the cold winter wind as it blew down the chimney, causing the flames to flicker. He played a louder tune, so as to wipe out the sound of the wind.
Presently, the old door opened, and a large woman scurried in and put the rusted black kettle on the fire. The man played a softer tune as she hummed, and she smiled at him. Patting his shoulder, she hurried back into the next room.
He stared still at the fire. He waited as he played a soft tune. The kettle whistled. In an instant the large woman had scurried back in and taken the kettle to the next room. He heard a scream, and he played louder. The music filled the small room, making it almost happy.
He played and played some more, and watched the fire slowly fade. He told himself he should put another log on it, but he did not want to stop the music.
Then the large woman came out with a small bundle in her arms. He stopped his fingers. The large woman smiled, and nodded her head. He sighed with a bit of relief mixed up in the sigh. He set the banjo down.
"Your new son, sir." The old woman grinned, and handed the now joyful father his son.
SNOW
1998
Whiteness, never-ending whiteness
As far as the eye can see
It's thrilling to play in
Wondrous to breathe.
Slowly floating from above
Looking like the down of a dove
Gently falling on my face, cold and crisp
It has no taste
Looking like the mountains, instead of home
As if the hills have given us a loan
SNOW
Whiteness, never-ending whiteness
As far as the eye can see
Bleak and colorless to the eyes
Dark and looming in the sky
Cold and frozen landscape shows
It's even colder when the evil wind blows
It eats away at your fingers and toes
Shortens your breath, freezes your nose
All you want is to be inside
Snuggling up warm to hide from the
SNOW
Enough for now, more to come if y'all are interested. Please let me know if you are!
Peace love and teenage writings
Shanti Elena
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