Long time no write

Ok. So here I am, a little more than a month into the college routine, which I found out is a pretty interesting piece in the puzzle of life. To sum up my experiences so far, I figured I'd make a top ten list of the things I've learned so far:

10. Art school is different from regular school. All the kids I've met here so far are "chasing their dreams." I'm not excluding myself from that category, but it just feels a little off meeting people that announce they're going to be the next big director, singer, musician, fashion designer, or dancer after hearing nurse, physical therapist, or engineer for the last 7 or 8 years. 

9. Art students don't consider a party a party without some form of alcoholic beverage, joint, or shot so they can see all the pretty colors. They say it's "inspiring" and it helps them cope with being "different." Someone please throw these people a real party with Cranium, water, and home-made cookies. 

8. Chicago is a one-season city. The thing I miss most about living in the suburbs is the color. The trees planted here are set in cement, and the only green you see is at the park or along the sidewalk where the weeds have grown over. The leaves on the trees don't change color either. They just fall off. 

7. Public transportation isn't all it's cracked up to be. Let's just say that some guy woke up on the L with another man cutting open his thigh with a knife. I walk... everywhere. 

6. The kids at art school are a little more accepting than the general public. With all the unique cultures combined, no one really cares how many piercings you have, what color your hair is, if you draw on all your clothes with permanent markers, how many boyfriends/girlfriends you have at a single time, your sexual orientation and preference, or if you have your own vocabulary (well, that can get a little confusing, but the moment they understand one word, they're going to ask you to teach them the rest.) 

5.  Art school has their foot in pretty much every department of the world you can think of. For example, actor Sam Rockwell (Galaxy Quest, The Green Mile) came here several weeks ago to answer questions after screening his latest movie, Choke. I was fifteen feet from a famous actor. That's a new one. 

4.  Expectations cannot always be fulfilled. When I moved into my apartment with my three roommates, we had a leaky ceiling, stiff drawers that creak every time you open them, beds that creak louder than the drawers, ants, centipedes that were the size of my pinky finger with antennas twice as long, and almost complete solitude being that we were the only ones on the eighth floor, other than the dorm advisor. Let's just say I haven't made a lot of friends yet. 

3.  I'll say it loud and clear: I miss home. I miss my bed, my dogs, my family, privacy, my room, the grass, the smell (I feel like I'm breathing dirt here), the people in the hallways at school, MY FRIENDS, driving... the list goes on. Luckily, I'm close enough as where I can just take the train home if I really need to. 

2. There are extreme levels of maturity/mental capacity here. One of my roommates, for instance, asked me how to heat up a microwave dinner, but she's had 47 "boyfriends" and there's a warrant out for her arrest in Texas. Another kid in one of my classes knows where to get any drink or drug on the planet. Another student has been able to answer all my questions about Calculus when the teacher couldn't, and this one kid has the most extensive vocabulary I've ever heard. Hopefully all the positive things will influence me the most. 

1.  There is no way to prepare for college. It's one of life's best curve-balls and I strike out every time I'm at bat. Every corner has something new to shove in front of me. I really wonder if I'm just completely naive about everything from living in a bubble for the first 17 years of my life. I think I've learned many of those things that can't be taught, they just have to be experienced, but I feel like I'm the only one that is going through the entire process. Anyway, I've accepted the fact that I'm new at this. Let's hope that it just goes uphill from here. : ) 

Needy or not needy?

All my life, I have been told two things. Everyone I have ever met has told me, directly or indirectly, one of these two things. Some people have told me both, but really mean one, or possibly changed their minds several days, weeks, months, or years later. Everyone in your life will tell you one of these little, but at the same time, big messages. I have told people, you have told and will tell people, friends, family. The advice you give one person may not be the same as the next. You may even change your mind or try to take it back. 

Well, these two things can make you or break you, build you or destroy you, enchant you or disgust you, change you or leave you the same being you were before the words were uttered. They make you think. They make you ponder. They make you decide.

One message that I noticed quite recently, is that I need something. Most people tell me I need something when we first meet. They don't specify what it is possibly because of embarrassment, courtesy, or something they call manners. It's typical. We've all been subject to it and have told someone that they've needed something. In our eyes, they didn't have it, and because they didn't have it, of course, they needed it. To many of us, another person on this planet will always need something. Always. 

The second thing, which I learned even more recently, is that no one needs anything. I only wish that I had the power to go up to everyone and tell them that they needed absolutely nothing! How great would it feel?! If I could do that, I would fulfill my life's work...(not like I have any idea what a life's work is, but it sounds legit). To tell someone that they don't need a single thing in my eyes. Some people have told this already. I am happy that I have told them. But I want to let everyone know. 

I want to be able to tell the world that it needs nothing. 

It's perfect just the way it is.

You're perfect just the way you are. 

Searching

Almost instantly after she slammed and locked the door, her hands flung a scrappy purse and a set of keys onto the small hallway table, ,already supporting a vase of dried flowers and a picture frame. She then realized, with immense annoyance, that he too, unfortunately had a key. She stormed down the hallway.

Right before she entered the kitchen, she heard the jiggling doorknob and a metallic clink. the condominium door flung open and she could hear his quick, light footsteps on the hardwood floor. 

"Elise?" he shouted from the hallway.

Her frail hands gripped the edge of the marble sink. Elise tried to steady herself by taking a deep breath. The new set of bangs she cut yesterday were falling into her glistening eyes where tears were slowly budding. 

"Elise?" 

This time it was soft. She could tell he was standing in the doorway of the kitchen. 

"Get out."

She had meant to say those words firmly, but her voice quivered. Hatred bubbled in her stomach for saying that to him. 

"What?" confusion coloring his voice.

"Roger, just get out," she said as she swiped away a tear on her cheek.

"I don't under-"

"What don't you understand? Don't you get it? We can't be together. Not yesterday, not now, not tomorrow."

"Why? Why can't we be together if we want?" he already knew the answer she was about to give.

"Are you kidding?" she asked incredulously. "You almost got killed tonight. On my behalf!"

"That guy couldn't take me if he tried. I didn't die, did I? Look, will you stop blaming yourself for things you can't control?"

She knew he was right, but the image of the fresh gash on his arm was branded on her memory. 

"Do you think they won't try harder next time? They won't plant bombs or secretly track you down? They aren't going to stop after tonight and just say 'Darn, foiled again.'"

"You're right, they're not. But I told you that was a risk I was willing to take. I told you that I loved you and nothing could come between us, not even..."

"...God, himself, yeah. But I guess love was foolish this time. I don't want to have to explain to your family the reason you were killed in a freak car chase was because of me. Why don't you find some other chick and just live a normal life. Get married, have kids, grow old, buy a porch swing."

He took a step forward and put his hands out from his body slightly.

"Elise, there is no other 'hot chick.' I don't want to buy a porch swing for someone else." He chuckled to himself at the idea. "I want to grow old with only one, beautiful, unique woman." 

He walked forward and stood behind her, hesitating.

Elise felt him standing there, staring at her. She gasped slightly when he took al of her hair and moved it to one side of her neck. He placed his arms around her stomach, encircling her with warmth. Then, he kissed her neck. She recoiled slightly.

"Then you better start looking," she said, wiping away more tears. She couldn't help but sniff at her running nose. 

He paused for a moment. Couldn't she understand that his world stood still when he looked at her, when she smiled at him, when they held hands. She was the only thing that kept him tied to the world, to an existence. 

He placed his hands over hers on the countertop and guided her, turning to face him slowly. He cupped her face in his hands, his thumbs clearing the tear tracks. Her eyes stared at his shoes. 

"Too late," he whispered. Her deep chocolate eyes met with his silver ones.

"I've already found her." 

Love at First Sight

Okay. This is the longest short story I've ever written and it's still sketchy. I'm pretty sure there are a bunch of holes all over the place so bare with me. I just really liked the idea. 

Hazelnut? Mocha? Mint-chocolate? Hmm....

"Can I get a grande vanilla latte, please?" I asked. 

"Sure. I'll be right back."

My usual table, my usual coffee, my usual day. I sat outside underneath a green and white striped umbrella as the sun made shadows on the sidewalk. My laptop was placed on the dusty glass table-for-two before me, opened up to a fresh Word document. I crossed my legs and leaned to one side of my seat. 

I needed to write another chapter this week if I wanted my book published by the end of this year. For days I had been pondering over what event should occur next in the small romance novel  I'd begun. It was a typical love story that was in definite need of a small twist here or there. Two similar business people were going to meet each other through some friends they had in common, eventually laying eyes on each other and not being able to take them off. Like I said, desperately in need of some zest.

I had tried examining couples in my neighborhood. Old Mr. and Mrs. Bates walking down the sidewalk, holding hands as the sun died down each and every night. High school teenagers leaning up against a tree in the park. A middle-aged couple renewing their vows as a local church. I had yearned to put these intimate feelings into words, sentences, and chapters, but somehow nothing came to do it justice.

"And what would you like today, Mr. Logan?" a young, friendly waitress asked.

She was talking to a man seated an another two's table behind me. He had sandy-blond curls that fell softly over his ears. Tan skin brightened the glow of his immaculately white polo shirt better than Oxy Clean. He looked uniquely sun-kissed with a pair of rimless sunglasses. For a moment, I thought I felt my heart skip a beat. 

"The usual would be great, Tiffany. Thank you," he replied.

Usually, I didn't look at men for more than a couple second; however, something about him was much too attractive for a simple glance. I saw a book rested on his leg, the spine up against the rim of the table. The next moment, he looked my way and I smiled. Whether he didn't care or didn't bother, my smile was never returned.

I returned to my own book-in-the-making. A few sentences came to me here and there, but nothing hit the spot I was concentrating on. I looked around for inspiration. I caught Mr. Logan in the reflection of my screen. I saw that his hand seemed to follow each work on the page. I wondered if he knew that this slowed one's reading speed. 

My latte came within the next minute, and I gratefully sipped my morning usual. Seconds later, his came and once again I turned around. His usual consisted of what looked like an iced green tea and a muffin. A satisfying and healthy choice. I couldn't help but notice that Tiffany had taken a small, pink packet of Sweet & Low and laid it on the lid of his cup.

I watched in the reflection of my computer screen as he continued flipping through pages of his book with one hand while breaking off pieces of his muffin with the other. His face occasionally contorted with slight frustration as his fingers slipped over the page. Before I knew it, I realized I was concentrating on all of his actions.

I focused on the keyboard in front of me and typed away, nails clicking on the plastic buttons. I reread the measly paragraph I'd come up with in the last 10 minutes. Strangely enough, my main character had come to acquire bond, curly hair and tan skin.

I couldn't understand my sudden obsession, for lack of a better word, with the man sitting behind me. I took in all of his details: the aged thong sandals, a small soul patch, a rolex, the old navy shoulder bag leaning against his chair. Although I couldn't point it out, something seemed a tad strange, something I had trouble putting my finger on.

I tried to return to the beginning of my story. His character developed into a general businessman searching for a life beyond the cubicle. 

Part of me was excited because I could feel I was gravitating toward that satisfaction and pleasure with my own writing. The other half of me, however, felt as thought I was invading the personal space of the man sitting behind me.

I positively knew that I had something coming out the his book. I had to continue writing, otherwise it would all go to waste. I felt I needed to ask Mr. Logan for his permission or something. But again, I felt completely silly asking to borrow someone's personal traits. He probably wouldn't even read the book. 

Several minutes passed. I had long finished my latte and was wondering about ordering something else just to buy more time to watch Mr. Logan not so obviously. The character in my book had begun to read a small paperback, tracing each word with his finger. This was getting ridiculous, but it was what my character was telling me to write. 

I saw a movement out of the corner of my screen. Mr. Logan was beginning to pack his book away in the Old Navy messenger bag. Flower petal number one: ask him? Flower petal number two: don't ask him? Petal: embarrassment? or petal: regret? Another petal fell to the ground. 

"Mr. Logan?" I called. Thank goodness we were the only two sitting outside.

He looked up at me. 

"Yes?" he questioned, an expression of slight confusion crossed his face.

"I'm sorry to bother you, Mr. Logan.  I couldn't help but overhear your name from Tiffany, but I was wondering if I could ask you something."

A small, nervous smile played on his lips.

"You already have, but sure, ask another, Miss..."

And he's got a dry sense of humor. Lovely. 

"It's Forrester. Jane Forrester. I was wondering if you would mind if I used your, um, personal attributes for a character in this novel I'm writing. Simple things, you know, hair color, outfit perhaps?" (Yes, I know that no one would do this in real life - Zvwooski)

His smile widened a smidge. He picked up his bag and stood. Only then did I notice that he was a head taller than myself.  

"Sure. As long as I can find somewhere to buy a copy once it comes out in print." He chuckled to himself.

Nerves slightly dulled, I found my mouth was able to move again. That was too easy.

"Absolutely, Mr. Logan. I can send you a free copy if you like. Direct delivery." I wasn't kidding.

He laughed again. How was I going to put such a perfect pitch into words?

"Do you have something I could write my address on?"

That caught me. It's a good thing that I had my laptop. 

"Um... Well, no, but if you want to you can type it in on my computer. I won't lose it that way."

"Indeed."

I held it out before me. He lightly touched the edges of the base before he fingered the keys, hastily typing out his address.

I honestly couldn't understand why there weren't more Mr. Logans in this world. 

"Thank you so much, Mr. Logan for being so completely understanding. It doesn't feel right when I don't have someone's permission."

"No problem Ms. Forrester.  I only have a small question."

"Yes?"

"Is it possible to get your book in braille?"

For the first time, and I don't know how it slipped by me, I noticed that he picked up a walking stick leaning against the other side of the table. It was completely white except for the 6 inches on the bottom that were painted red. 

I couldn't help the stutter. "A-absolutely."

Another small smile from Mr. Logan.

"Thank you."

And with that, he walked out of the small eating area and down the sidewalk, moving the cane in rhythm. 

Suddenly it all clicked. I realized what I had missed the first time.

As I heard the fading echoes of a metronome-like crack on the pavement, I knew I found the twist I was looking for.

I realized that I'd have to find a different way to convey the idea "love at first sight."

Bored

Another story I wrote....

Physics class. Most boring of all classes in the 7-period day. Nothing better to make your eyelids droop to that dangerously close state of face-planting into your desk, let alone getting that wicked parallel set of lines across your face from a spiral notebook. Let's just call it a temporary tattoo.

Today was a 10 on the snore-worthy scale of boredom. 90% of the girls in this particular class were wither resting their heads in their hands, blankly staring at the dry-erase board, or texting friends on three-hundred dollar phones, hidden behind outrageously large designer purses. The guys were... well... sleeping. 

With my pen as a metaphorical sword, I fought off said boredom by drawing. To me, nothing was more appealing than doodling on a scratch piece of paper when the teacher couldn't care less. Soon enough, I found myself dragging the tip across the next clean page in my notebook. 

Most of the time, the pictures that I squeezed out of the Papermate were completely random and without purpose. I think today I actually tried to make a recognizable image. It turned out that my love for my guitar weaseled out onto the page. 

I rapidly sketched contour lines for a knobby hand playing what looked like a G7 chord on the neck of the guitar. Swift lines became shadows and a three dimensional figure began to take shape. Another hand followed down to the base of the instrument, plucking away on the strings. Not bad for twenty minutes of monotonous ramble on Newton's theories. 

I guess I also have an obsession with drawing hands. I guess that being an artist has some relation because I haven't figured out how to draw with my toes yet. My hands are my connection with basically everything: high-fives, eating, fixing my hair, driving, playing guitar, cracking my knuckles when I'm nervous, etc. If I didn't have hands, it would be as if my world were in black and white - the real vibe would be missing from the picture. 

Today was also different from the rest on a separate scale. The kid next to me saw what I was drawing. The thing is, he's different. No, scratch that - he's awesome. He wasn't like other guys I knew. He acted his age, not his shoe size. He actually knew how to say "Thank You" and "You're Welcome." He knew how to apply deodorant on a daily basis.  He understood that you earned your grades, teachers didn't hand them out. And he knew how to play guitar. Really well. 

Today he noticed my drawing. He saw the lines and shadows and eraser marks. I caught the fact that his jaw dropped the slightest bit. I pretended not to notice. 

"That's sick," were his words. I took it as a compliment.

"Uh... thanks," I replied, somewhat lamely.

I saw his eyes move up and down my notebook. I hoped that he didn't notice the flaws.

Finally his eyes caught mine. They were bright, emerald green.

I immediately knew what I was going to draw the next time I battled boredom. 

Last Shot

Another story... this one just came into my head one day. Honestly, I'm against all sorts of weaponry and violence.

One hand supported the base, the second hand clenched around the first, both extended in front of her body. Between the rapidly increasing beats pulsing through her ears, she noticed mauve paint chipping off her thumbnail. The veins in her wrists curved like tiny waves leading to ten shaking fingers. No, get a grip! she mentally yelled to herself. Shaking only highlights weakness. 

Long black tendrils of hair whipped around her head and neck - just another distraction from the finish line. They were wet and when they weren't flying in different directions, they were plastering themselves across her forehead and cheeks.

Two rather expensive designer boots supported her petite frame against the billowing winds of New York City. Rain glided down the sides to the toes, making small puddles in the creases of the four hundred dollar leather. The matching trenchcoat whipped about her legs, creating flapping sounds, barely audible in the storm. Damn mother nature, she thinks. Always in the way. 

Her hands were slipping in the icy rain. A set look of determination was spread upon her face with a touch of fury and a pinch of revenge. She felt her teeth grind together, biting her lip in the process. 

Her eyes focused on the prize. The only barrier between the woman and her success was a sheet of glass labeled with the neighborhood bank logo. She was so close to both outcomes. She could walk away and live a stable life of sainthood. She could also do it for her family, her friends, heck, even her mutt. She could do it all for herself. 

Choose now or forever hold your peace. 

Choosing... choosing...

Fortunately, her target heard the crash of booming thunder instead of her thumb cocking the gun. 

So... I'm loving today because it's one of those days where I can just wake up and roam around the house with nothing in particular to do.  Go online, grab a bowl of cereal, read the news, stretch, yawn, whatever I feel like doing.  Right now it's just me and the dogs, whom are snoring and whimpering and caught up in their dreams. 

It's nice to be able to open all the doors and windows and let the sun shine in and hear the smaller noises from outside flow into the house. I think that's going to be one of the qualities I miss most when I go to college.  Yes, it's one of those cliche changes that so many people experience, but now it's happening to me.  I get to go through the motions with a bird's eye view and I get to absorb everything that crosses my path. It feels awkward because I always thought that I'd feel a lot older when I left for college and had to let go of my parents' hands. I feel like I don't know enough about everything and that I should have studied more in high school.  But then again, is a precalc textbook really going to tell me how to adapt to city life? Not really. 

Other than that, current thoughts of the day consist on a scrapbook that is waiting to be filled, a book series that needs to be read, and this upcoming weekend when I will get to see my cousin and her husband after trip that was way too long for my liking (all the more kudos to facebook). I am mentally jumping out of my seat. Of course, the rest of my family will be there and it'll just be a big celebration like it always is. Only this time, two more puzzle pieces will be in place. 

Who's to say...

Another story for your reading pleasure.

This was her haven. No one knew who she was, why she was there, or if she'd be back tomorrow. If she did look someone in the eye, who's to say she'd ever meet that person again? She was all alone, et she was surrounded with life, and today happened to be the perfect day.

For just a moment, Malerie closed her eyes and took a deep breath.  The autumn air enclosed her in a world of gratefulness; thanks that she could actually get outside. She sat indian style and pulled out a sketchbook to place in her lap.  After getting a pencil, she opened to a fresh page. She needed something to draw, but nothing came to her mind right away. Flipping through past pictures, she realized she needed some inspiration.

Malerie twisted about, taking in everything around her. Usually a common civilian was her model for the day, whether it was a business woman or a homeless man, she would sketch that person. Today no one wanted to unknowingly surrender themselves for her sketchbook. Most of the people in the park were casuals, going through their daily routines. She had drawn most of them before, including the impatient ones. She just couldn't find the right subject today.

She figured today was a day to practice her patience.  A wind picked up slightly, flicking her long hair this way and that. Maybe I'll just dray the flowers, she thought to herself. No. Too boring. One of her hands propped her chin, the other tapped an eraser on her sketchpad. The wind blew a little stronger.  Malerie looked toward the sky, watching the trees sway and hearing them rustle. In a matter of seconds, several loose papers from her sketchbook caught onto the wind as if they were parachutes. They flipped and twirled down the park sidewalk. Malerie chased after them, leaving her bag behind on the grass.

She caught up to her sketches. As she was gathering the drawings, she saw a pair of puma cabana racers stop in front of her. When she stood, the person was still collecting random sketches that were out of her reach.  As he straightened to full height, he looked Malerie in the eyes. She noticed that they were silvery-grey and captivating. Shaggy, chestnut hair fell to his neck and a deep complexion perfected the Adonis-like figure. He sported an Old Navy, rugby-stripe polo. Malerie was lost for words. 

The boy they stared at the papers in his hand; specifically one of an older man looking out the #14 Pacebus window.

"These are amazing," he commented as he handed them back to the owner.

"Thank you," Malerie replied. "And thanks for helping me catch them."

"No problem. Well, I'll see you around," he said. 

"Yeah... Thanks again."

"You're welcome," he said with a perfect smile. He turned and ran back to his friends who were playing a game of pick-up soccer. 

Malerie hugged the papers to her chest. She stared at the boy walking away. Who's to say she wouldn't see him again? 

By Heart

First of many stories to come...

What to write, what to write she thought. That blank piece of paper only taunted her more. Playing with the corners of the page didn't help either. Charlotte's hand paused, pen grasped between her fingers, at the first line, hoping some form of inspiration would pop into her mind. Soon, her hand guided the sleek pen into squiggles, stars, hearts and flowers; it still didn't help her write that essay. 

She just could not understand it. Charlotte could write poetry, short stories - heck, even novels all night long, but her talents were extremely limited when it came to factual reports and essays.  How her mind could wander through smokey, deserted islands or fly with fancy birds of paradise in humid jungles! She could spend hours pondering origins of common , everyday words or picturing love scenes in her head. She knew it was only minutes before her mind lost interest from politics, wars, and yucky grown-up conversation starters, such as mortgage rates or job salaries. Her heart just would not focus on those topics her teachers claimed were important. 

Once again, her eyes paused at the blank page, cursing it for being so long. She had already headed her paper with her name and the date.  Her history textbook gleamed with reflected light from her desk lamp. She was supposed to open to page four-hundred-eighteen and absorb all the information on the relationship between England and China during the early 1900's.  At the moment, her brain was almost the opposite of a sponge, refusing to take in boring facts, dates, and names.  Charlotte's green eyes glanced at her alarm clock.  11:10 it read. One more minute and she could make a wish.

She chuckled to herself at the superstition. She had always made wishes when clocks ticked into patterns.  One fleeting moment was all she had. What to wish for? So many possibilities. 

I wish I could get this paper completed before 1:00 AM. Her hands flipped through the pages. Nothing interesting, mind-boggling, or worthy of pondering over. A deep sigh escaped through her lips. 

After several moments of racking her brain for an introduction paragraph, she closed the book and decided to finish her paper in the morning. She'd have more energy and hopefully more will.

Pulling back the sheets, Charlotte climbed into her bed and turned out the light.  She lay there for several minutes listening to the night noises around her: her parents' snores from down the hall, the wind gliding through the trees outside her bedroom window, the low hum from the heater. It all soothed her.

After a half an hour of listening, Charlotte found herself wide-awake. Unwilling to waste any more time staring at the ceiling, she flipped over onto her stomach and grabbed a blue spiral hidden under her bed and clicked on the flashlight dangling from the middle of her headboard.  After opening to somewhere in the middle, she snatched a pen from the mug on her desk and titled the page "Chapter 8."

In the beginning...

Welcome to my blog and thank you for reading the first of many posts to come.  Here I hope to display my writing abilities with the occasional picture or illustration, which is really the only way to describe me.  I read, draw, write, and sometimes get crafty. Beware the glorified stick-figures. 

On too many occasions, I have found myself swarmed with too many thoughts and I don't have anything to write them on or anyone to share them with.  Seeing that over a billion people have found some way to express themselves through blogs, I figured that it was something easy and didn't necessarily come with a step-by-step instruction booklet. Kudos for going against the grain. 

The title of my blog might seem a little hostile and therefore could use a little explaining. I'm not telling anyone to scramble from my sight, unless their running off to something more important, of course. What I mean by "get lost" is that I hope my posts are creative and captivating enough where one can lose themselves like I usually do behind a favorite book. I'm working on my creative writing skills and it would be nice to know how I'm doing and if my stuff poses any interest. Creative criticism is welcome. 

Thanks again for reading. More posts to come!!! : )