Also, her new blog URL is http://www.descendingsky.blogspot.com

She’s still leaving this one up, but the new blog is Blogger.

She strode into the black ocean, gripping a sheet of weathered parchment. In her other hand was a glass bottle: the paper’s transportation across the inky waters. She slipped the letter in it, corked it, and cast it over her head, watching the bottle plunge into the sea. The only light came from the moon.

For a few minutes she watched it bob in the waves, then turned back to the beach. The sand sunk in between her toes and froth lapped her heels. A gust of misty wind whipped her loose hair and pulled at her shirt. She wondered how long it would take for her message to reach the other side. Days? Weeks? Years? A frown formed on her lips. She didn’t have that kind of patience.

Clambering onto a large rock, she reviewed what she had written in the letter. It had taken a long time to complete, but she was satisfied. It showed her true colors.

With a sudden lurch pricks of panic arrived. Certain sentences in the note presented themselves to her mind. Yes they showed her true colors. Her ignorant, foolish colors that she should have been erased before someone opened the bottle. Before he opened the bottle.

What had she been thinking? She should have kept a laid-back profile; someone who had a handle on their emotions with serenity seeping through their skin. She had written like a child, and now she would never be accepted.

Frustration watered her eyes and anger clouded her mind. The letter was her only chance, and she had ruined it. He would open it, glance then scoff, and let it fall to its death, her hopes along with the paper. She would never be taken or—if others read the note—wanted. Their impressions of her would be tilted with disapproval, as was his she imagined.

Feeling her pride sink, she jumped off the rock and began to run through the night. She wanted out of this chaos and curl up in happiness, leaving the wretched beach behind. Her hope was now extinguished. Through mid-stride, she lost her footing and crumpled on the moist sand. Her will breaking, tears gushed down her cheeks. She’d been so stupid, as she was acting now. But she couldn’t help it. She had lived behind a calm mask for too long, and now was her night to cry.

As she curled into a ball on the ground, realization tapped her shoulder. He would never get the letter. The waves wouldn’t bring it to him, but back to her. New tears sprung from her eyes. He would never know. He would continue living his life on the other side, while she whittled new dreams that fell through in her world. At least he wouldn’t know of her childish ways… but then again, he wouldn’t know of her at all.

She watched her bleeding heart on the sand, not wishing to sew it back together. She needed God to scrape her up and stitch her back to her whole self. She needed Him to place an ember of peace that never dwindled in her soul. And yet, despite all of His help, she wouldn’t be able to escape the earth’s trap. No one escaped.

She would fall, like everyone before her.

But, at the same time, she knew it was a beautiful thing.

Ah yes.

Shedding her clothes, she spotted that the small bathroom window was open. She should close the blinds so no one could spy, but she was too lazy to bring herself to the glass. Besides, the window faced woods. She didn’t really care if some rabbits saw her.

Today was her school’s math tournament, and on the way to her state’s capital she’d imagined herself running freely beside the car. Though impossible, she felt free thinking of her stretching her long legs with every bound. No one would stop her. She would amaze and fill others with awe, since she was close to being called a gazelle.

But, instead, she sat cramped in the backseat of a car, wondering why her Burt’s Bees chapstick had gone amiss.

And then her thoughts had fused into twirling in a meadow nestled between hills and a forest, with mountains scraped into the background. The music humming from her iPod would flood the air and wind would be her dancing partner. God would soak her heart so she would feel more wholesome than she did now.

She rubbed her shoulders in the shower, savoring the warmth. But she was starting to notice that the heat was becoming too much. And the granola bar she had consumed about a minute before bathing was oddly making her feel weighed down.

She shut the water off, frowned at the open window, wondering why she hadn’t closed the blinds, and dried herself off. The effects of the boiling water made her appear as if she had been burned by the sun. 

Botan Rice Candy. She’d found the box in the kitchen and, mainly out of boredom, decided to eat them. She opened the first candy, but there was a plastic embracing the candy tightly. After many tries of plucking the wrapper off, she gave up and moved onto the next candy. It was the same, as were all the others. She sighed. Why did they have to be old? The candy looked enticing, however, so she eventually freed the candies from their straight jackets, even if she had picked them to pieces. They weren’t as satisfying as they would be if they were whole, but no matter.

Sweeping the pile of plastic remains into a pile, she read the candy box. The lid said:

Each candy has an edible inner wrapper that melts in your mouth.

Pride gushed through her, dissolving the uncertain. Adrenaline, energy, and contentment swirled together to pump her blood. Her heart pounded and with every thump words resonated in her mind.

Writing.

Smiling.

You’re good.

Scratch that, grinning.

Thump.

She’ll never stop.

She felt like running out of pure joy. Twirling, laughing, singing, and then, when her pride had dwindled, back to the paper. Back to writing in her civics class. Let the teacher’s words wash over her without absorbing a thing. Just write.

This was her fate.

She would not slump in a cubicle and let her life slowly become unraveled by financial nonsense.

She would not allow money to appear appetizing.

She would not let her imagination go by unnoticed.

She slipped her hand into God’s and together they turned to face the world. A smile curved her lips.

This is my fate.

A smug look followed.

Today, with the smugness drowned by nerves, she walked into the downtown library where she would read her story in front of the Bayou Writer’s Group. Translation: she would stammer her poor writings while elderly authors all-knowing of the English language would cast their looks on her, judging every word she uttered. God.

And then the whole appearance ordeal. This was a “conference.” Did these writers dress causally or formally? Everyone judged by first impressions. Not toying with the idea for long, she decided on jeans and this presentable shirt. She was a teenager; she should be able to pull this off, right?

She entered the library, nausea creeping upward, and felt slightly relived. Her Converse would cut it. Minutes slugged by, and she determined who the other two contest winners were. One was girl cloaked in a dark dress—a dressfor heaven’s sake; she immediately felt under dressed—and an athletic girl porting a t-shirt and nice shorts. She stood on middle ground.

The members had notebooks placed neatly beside them, pen in hand, ready to jot down any information. She felt tempted to take a rendez-vous to Office Depot and purchase a nice notebook container she had no need of. The members took a tour with their names and what they wrote, and she was shocked to find that many had publications. What did she have? Just a dream.

Finally a woman who sat next to her stood up and explained what the contestants had to do for the competition. She showed what they would receive for placing in the top three, and then announced the third place winner.

Come on, say my name. I know it will be me. I’ll accept that. The other girls will win. I..

But the woman didn’t say her name. The t-shirt girl was third. Her eyes flicked to the girl in the dress. Would it be she, or her? The girl had said she’d published a story in a magazine. Snap. What had she ever done? Win second place in a fifth grade writing contest? Yeah.

The third place winner’s story was indeed good. Metaphors appeared frequently and she thought the girl should look into poetry. Once she had finished, everyone applauded politely and waited for the woman to announce the second place winner.

Now it will be me. I can’t beat that chick who has already published something. Second place. Fate. Sigh.

But her name never came.

Her stomach dropped.

No.

Really?

No.

Yes.

A grin spread across her face. Her? Win? First place? Her? Her?  Yes. Her.

The girl in the dress’s story was extremely good as well. Her writing was very descriptive, and she found it much like her own.

And then it was her turn. She looked at the floor while the woman rattled off everything she would be recieving. She gathered her story, reminding herself to read nice and slow. She took a deep breath and read Augustine. Praises to the Lord!

Goblets or no goblets.

But her patience failed her. Midway, her heart hardened to stone. Why was she slaving away to fill the beautiful cup? She wasn’t receiving anything in return. One word stained her thoughts: wasted. She had wasted precious time for the irrelevant task. Wasted thoughts and energy. Wasting away.

Her lips slid into a scowl. She didn’t need this goblet. It was overrated. Sighing she unlocked her mind that had been hidden for the past months. Maybe she could see clearly now, since the wine was gone.