Magic in Her Hands

I could hear the footsteps of the guards running after me. I knew I had to keep running for fear that they might catch me. If that happened, well, I couldn't let that happen. I stumbled over the gnarled roots of an old pine tree. I landed into the thick foliage of the plants blanketing the ground and hoped that no one would be able to see me. The guards passed right by me as I held my breath.

I waited for a few painstaking, long minutes before I deemed it safe to come out. I pulled myself up and went further into the trees. The guards couldn't catch me. If they did, they’d remove my pinkies and I could serve life in prison for running away.

The king was a good man, but he continued to get sicker. He turned the crown over to his eldest son. His son had always seemed so nice, but he was not. He was bitter and cruel because he had been born without pinkies. It didn't seem important to anyone else but it made him angry. As soon as his father died, he made a new law forbidding pinkies. Doctors would be coming around to every town, performing the amputation. All babies would get theirs removed at eighteen month. I refused to let that happen to me so I fled into the woods.

When the king found out he was furious. He wanted a perfect world, a world that obeyed him completely. I don’t think if I told him the reason I needed them it would help. He banned magic too.

I snapped out of my thoughts as a branch broke. The birds paused their songs for a moment. Silence. I peered around but it was difficult to see anything in the dim light that peeked through the forest’s cover. It could've been just a rabbit, but I refused to brush it off. I drew my sword as a man leapt in front of me.

                He had long, brown hair that hung in front of his eyes. I thought that as an advantage as I went to stab him with my sword. It was of no use. Someone grabbed me from behind. I screamed and shoved my hands into my pockets, protecting them. Glaring defiantly at the man, I noticed that his black gloves had a space for his pinkie. He wasn't one of the king’s guards, they all had to have theirs removed too. I kicked as hard as I could behind me, making contact with someone’s shin. I heard a crack and then a shriek.

                Before I could get away, someone new had grabbed me. “Let me go!” I screamed, the man now holding me clasped his hand over my mouth. Then I noticed the group of men that had gathered. There were probably ten of them. I knew there would be no escaping. I felt some satisfaction about injuring the man currently huddled on the ground.

                The man with the long hair circled me. “Why, you’re just a little peasant girl, aren't you? What are you doing alone in the forest? You've seen too much, we’ll have to take you into town and execute you.” I bit the hand that was over my mouth. The man only tightened his grip so I pulled my hands out of my pockets and pulled the hand away. The man with long hair stared at my hands.

                “Give those to me,” he whispered.

                “Please, don’t cut off my hands,” I begged, my voice echoing off the trees.

                The man gently took my hands and examined them. I heard someone whisper, “She still has her pinkie.”

                The man who I assumed was their leader said, “Yes, and she has the sign.” He rubbed his thumb over my birthmark and I stared into his deep brown eyes, wishing he would say what he meant. Everyone bowed down to me and I felt relived but scared at the same time.

                “Apologies for everything, my lady. Please, let us take you back to camp. We've been waiting.”

                “Waiting?”

                “Yes, for the one with magic in her hands.”

                                                Found on: imgkid.com

Reflective Essay

1. My biggest challenge in creative writing has been my laziness. I'll be sitting on the couch doing nothing and decide to write. But Netflix always seems more appealing. I definitely need to be more strict with myself.

2. Something I learned this semester about myself and my writing is I like to write dark stuff. I always mean for it to be happy, but a part of me wants to kill everyone off. I guess that just adds to the plot line. It's still weird though.

3. I've learned that the writing process is hard. If it wasn't, I think everyone would be doing it. You really have to make your best effort in order to get anywhere.

4. I did notice growth in my writing. I'm better at pouring out all my feelings super quickly. When I start writing, I never want to stop. In regular classes we'll have five minutes to write something and most kids will have a paragraph and I'll have a page. I'm figuring out how to put the ideas in my head on paper.

5. I feel happy when I write about my writing. At the same time it feels weird. When I think about my writing, it's easy to have thoughts that tell me that my writing is horrible. I just have to tell myself that it's better than it once was and the more I do it, the better it will become. Besides, when you write a lot, it's easier to pick out the hidden gems.

6.Before I took a creative writing class, I thought writing was super easy. I've learned that it isn't. I don't know if it'll ever get easy but I'm starting to figure stuff out.

7.My favorite aspect of creative writing is that you can express yourself in whatever way you choose. It's not like math where you have to follow the rules. You can crumple up the rules and feed them to a dinosaur if that makes you happy. I love that. My least favorite part is not having any guidelines except what I create. I've learned that I do like some rules to guide me, so it's been hard. So I guess I love and hate guidelines at the same time. I think I'll just pick and choose what I feel like doing in my writing. Does that even make sense?

8.I can continue to grow as a writer and creative thinker by creating stories based on the world around me. Like, why is my friend always sick? Maybe she's not sick. She could be a ninja. Or she could be dying of an unknown disease. Although the stories I tell myself aren't usually true, they're much more fun or intense. I lived many years convincing myself that my grandpa was a pirate (sadly, he's not). As your imagination grows, the more you grow as a writer. Make some stuff up. It's awesome.

9. My current blog layout reflects me/my writing style because it shows a beautiful room that has gone through a lot. I don't know what has happened in that room and no one but me knows what's gone on in my life. That's okay. Like I said in #8, making stuff up is the best way to feel in those gaps with something magical. It makes life more interesting. I guess it portrays my imagination. I also just think that it's gorgeous and can see a similar room in my future home.

10. I will continue writing in my life. I don't know how yet. I might just use it to write in my journal but I hope I do so much more. I want to get published eventually, but I have to actually write in order to do that (and like I said before, I'm lazy). I want to write novels, revise them, write flash fictions like I put on the blog, and write to make myself happy. I will continue to write even if I only do it to see magic in a difficult time.

You made it to the end! Yay! I'm seriously impressed. I probably would've skipped to the end of the post. If you're that person, I totally respect that.

Creative Writing Portfolio

Here are some of my personal favorite pieces. I'm sorry if you hate them. Read them anyway.

1. Love

You smile at me,

Not laughing at the chocolate on my face.

You don’t get upset,

When I burn the cookies.

You hug me,

Even though I’m covered in flour.

You are something special

To put up with me the way that you do.

You reach up,

Pulling the grass from my hair.

Your eyes twinkle with mischievousness

As you throw me in the lake.

You laugh,

Even though I’m yelling at you.

You get pushed in the lake,

But you’re not even mad at me.

You give me that look,

The one Disney princes give the princesses.

You play piano with me,

Knowing that it makes me happy.

You twirl me around,

There to catch me if I fall down because I always do.

You let me follow my dreams,

Without even thinking of yourself.

And you will never know,

How much I care about you.

Even though I’m grumpy,

You’re always there.

So thank you,

For understanding me.

I wish I could tell you how I feel,

But there aren’t enough words.

2. Run

            I ran faster, hearing the group of footsteps in the distance. I didn’t want to die. At least for now. I hadn’t given up hope quite yet. I was running out of breath. I took my last bit of energy and sprinted into the dark forest. Since I was young, I was warned that it was haunted. I was going to die anyway so I didn’t care.

            Once I couldn’t hear the angry voices anymore, I stopped running and sat down on some tree roots. I pulled my knees up to my chin and tried to hold myself together. How had things turned so bad so fast? I didn’t mean to kill that boy. It just sort of happened.

            The sounds of birds drifted around me. I guessed this would be my home now. Just me and the ghosts. I wanted to cry, but I was too prideful to let myself. I prepared for another sleepless night.

3. My Pinkie

My pinkie finger feels sad, lonely and forgotten. My pinkie finger doesn’t feel as useful as my thumb. It doesn’t feel as important as my pointer finger. My pinkie finger doesn’t get to hold as much value as my ring finger. It isn’t as naughty as my middle finger. But despite what it isn’t, I need it. It is my support. My pinkie finger guides my pencil, smearing with graphite as it does its thing. It pulls my bow across my bass strings, creating a deep, low vibrate for all to hear. My pinkie finger reaches far to get the notes I need on the piano. Although my pinkie finger is small, and quite easy to lose, I need it. It may feel forgotten and unappreciated, but I love it. Ode to my pinkie finger, I need you.

4. Unmasked

Glittering masks hide all the faces around me. I too am wearing one. Some masks are sad, the plastic drooping and wet. Others are happy; bright yellows, oranges, and pinks. They sparkle and shine without a worry. Mixed masks show dozens of emotions: love, hate, rage, sleepiness, perfection. The room looks like a confetti bowl, mixed together like a toddlers chaotic finger paint.

            I touch my own mask, not sure what emotion it shows. I hope it shows kindness, happiness, alertness. I wonder if it shows the real me: tired, exasperated, annoyed, trying to breath under water. The color is overwhelming and I go sit down. I watch a group of people whose masks try to outdo each other, constantly changing to be nerdier or more up to speed with what’s popular.

            The world around me spins and I wish I could just see who these people really are. I don’t care if they’re pretty, ugly, or in-between. I’d much rather see the natural beauty everyone has than the flashing of the ever-changing masks.

            In the corner, I find a masked boy whose face portrays confusion. “Hello,” I say. “You seem just as confused as I feel. Do you want to take off my mask and I’ll take off yours?”

            It takes some work but we pry each other’s masks off. His face makes me gasp. Not because he’s hard on the eyes, but because he’s simply beautiful. His eyes let me see so many emotions at once. His face is marked with scars and imperfections that make him seem real. He is so much more than a confused face, he has a story, a life.

            Although everyone around us looks at us, their masks turning to disgust, we smile. I will never put on my mask again, holding its cold emptiness in my hands. I wish everyone else would take off theirs. I would love to see them, the whole them. I’d love to watch as their imperfections turn strong. I want to gaze into their eyes, seeing their love, their hope, their dreams. The world would be a better place if everyone would just take off their masks and show the true them.

5. New Zealand

            New Zealand’s ocean view seems to beacon to me, waving me to it. Its rolling hills mixed with sheep. I dream of it, longing with all my heart to be there. But I can’t. Not yet, but one day. I think of all the wonderful movies that have been filmed there. I can picture hobbits and elves around every corner. I don’t know why New Zealand has a certain appeal but it does. It’s not New York, Paris, or London. It’s not Thailand, Japan, or Hawaii. Ode to New Zealand, where I long to be.

6. Light

Bright roof

Answered prayer

Stops my breath

The quiet sounding air

Strange new words

Simple and free

I found that moment

Light

7. My Life

It's the pouring of the rain, beating the windows, getting held back.

It's the sunset, filled with mixed colors and emotions.

It's the bird's song, always the same. Sometimes beautiful, sometimes boring.

It's a dandelion. Magical though some may disregard it as a weed.

It's an adventure, filled with danger and dreams of far off places.

It's a flower, growing in the garden only to get discouraged and wilt.

It's always fresh and always new.

It's outer space, very deep and very mysterious.

It's mine and I love it.

8. My Heart

It beats like the sound of a drum

and as I run, it tries to keep up.

Although tired it can never give up,

because it's the only one I got.

But I can feel it breaking,

not used to the weight I must hold.

Feeling like the whole world's depending on me,

and if it fails then my time is up.

So it must work its hardest

to pump the blood

that keeps me up.

9. The Woods

     I ran, laughing as I got chased down the hill by my best friend. He tackles me and I surrender the football. "You're a cheater," he said.

     "I know."

    "Let's go get some lunch," he said, grabbing my hand.

     We walked down the streets of the little town, my dress flowing behind me. I noticed it's grass stains and rips and smiled. Everyone needs some adventure in their life. We go to the small cafe, it smells delicious and fresh. The scent of cocoa powder fills the air. I buy a sandwich, muffin, and lemonade. It's all so good.

     "Let's walk back the way through the forest," he said.

     "You're crazy. You know everyone who goes in there doesn't return."

     "But maybe we'll be different." His hazel eyes convince me that we'll be fine.

     He takes my hand again and leads me in. I want to protest but don't even as worry fills my stomach. I try to act brave even though I feel like passing out. We walk for only a couple of minutes before I can't see the way out.

     "We're going to die."

     He only smiles his dimpled smile as he keeps going forward.

10. Alone

     I was left alone, letting the emptiness consume me. Sure, they were only a few steps ahead, but their shoulders touched, creating a blockade that I couldn't pass. Angrily, I stepped into the street and walked quickly away from them. I was only a few feet away when the blonde girl's mom showed up. That's when they called out to me, asking why I ditched them, trying to make me look bad. I said I had to go to work, and they slammed me down again.

     I walked away, letting the anger simmer inside of me. I think I'd feel better if not everyone though they were both perfect.

Snow

     It had snowed. The ground was covered in pure white, untouched by humans. The snow always comes, not caring what plans it ruins. Some greet it like an old friend. They relax as their fingers grow numb and the air burns their cheeks. I had forgotten how to enjoy it. I used to be one of those people, who grew restless on autumn nights. Craving the snow used to be all I could do for hours on end. I loved the glow it had as it reflected the lights of the setting sun. But then that all changed.

     It was no longer something I liked or could even tolerate. I missed the days when I could relax in the wet, cold powder that surrounded my house. Now I could no longer rest peacefully in the warmth of the fire on these cold nights. The snow changed my life about two years ago.

     I had been resting in my overstuffed chair. It was a normal night. The fire was crackling and dinner was in the oven. My wife had gone out to get groceries. She never returned. Everyone was out looking for her. We had barely found some car tracks when white little flurries started pouring out of the heavens. The evidence was lost and my wife was never found.

     On a cold winter night I was alone. I'm still alone. The snow drives me crazy. It forces me inside. And all I can think about is my beautiful wife. After it snows, it never wants to melt. I have to wait months until I can forget once more, only to be reminded again in a few short months. The snow makes me feel incomplete. And worse, utterly alone.

Winter by Leonid Afremov