Glitter on the Keys

This might be the first bit of clothing that I don't think I'll ever use. Still, it's such a pretty mask that my mother picked up with Rick...I'll find a way, won't I?
Today, I also walked all the way down the hill and into the town on my own - finally - for the first time. I didn't see anything weird, and I was filled with such adrenaline that I didn't have any emotions past excitement as I walked. I bought hot chocolate at the Molbak's and brought it back for Rick and my mother.

Nothing Like Golden Gardens

Just behind where I was standing, there was a willow tree and a rope tied to it. I tied a loop in the rope and made a standing rope swing for myself to use. I climbed the tree and over the rocks as the tide came in, and sprinted all the way back. Funny how I wait till the last moment to finally let things go.

How do you feel about me posting a picture/short thought every day?

Observing Columbus Day

Columbus day is almost here! Let's light the cannons and go....hunting!

A friend of mine once told me that one would theoretically celebrate Columbus Day by, "Walking up to someone's door, knocking, and telling them, 'This is my house now'." To this day, I can sort of agree with them. (Just a thought.)

This post isn't exactly a restatement of school being a pain in the behind, but do enjoy this infographic by The Oatmeal.

4700 Miles and a Promise

This post is in partial followup to, "Imogen Heap's 'Little Bird' and the Story of Me" . If you would like, take a look at it.

On the twenty-first of every month, starting with August, I've e-mailed a friend of mine who was torn from me. He moved to Truro, England, out of a family issue. I ground my knuckles into the keyboard and ended up tear-ripe every day. I still am. I trusted - and still trust - this one particular friend more than any other person, and we've been friends for as long as I can remember. 

...and just hours ago, he e-mailed back. He apologized for not getting back to me, but assured me that he was (and that I was to be) alright. He described his new living situation and how much he missed everyone back home. I often wondered if I hindered his transition, but I'm confident that I still have a friend in the one who had to fly away. Before this friend moved, I was surrounded with rumors; Goodbye parties that I hadn't been invited to, denial of the gifts which I so carefully packed, etc. 

...but just hours ago, he e-mailed back. 

Last of the Summer Picture-Taking

The maple outside my window is still green. It and all the other deciduous trees in the culdesac have just begun losing their leaves, though the weather is begging for otherwise. Indeed, summer is ending.

fun fact: All the pictures on this site
were taken with my phone.

See? Green. Right there.

Overcoming Jealousy: Wizards, Smiths, and Therapuetic Cursive

Over the course of the past summer and the school year as of yet, I've written variations of "The Eighth Grade Wizard" only to post one random version of it a little while ago. Truth is, I consider myself to be a blacksmith in the town which the wizard resides in. I know a useful and profitable craft that people tend to enjoy, yet the things that gain more appreciation - Say, enchanted robes, for example - go straight to the wizard. As a smith, I could easily have the will of the city in my hands, but for some reason, no matter how hard I work, I don't. I love the wizard, for she helps me if I get too hurt or if I have too heavy a load. As powers in the city, we both work together often, though the wizard knows that she could handle it on her own. As I realized this myself, I started to dwindle from my craft. What was the point?

At this moment in time, I'm currently balancing an unwritten short story for English due in a week and the idea of a research paper for National History Day. I know that my writing skills in some areas surpass that of Wizard's, but she ends up getting all the credit because she is more apt to exploit her work. I tend to be on the humble side, only sharing my expertise with those who can truly appreciate it or give me extra credit. People still constantly compare me to Wizard, and I'll admit that I haven't written a word of fiction in weeks that I appreciated.

Shocking, isn't it? I can write blog posts just fine, but I do so with a pang of anger and resent, as Wizard doesn't have a blog and all "posts" that she writes are just links to Youtube videos. Still, whenever it comes to fiction, I know that my tongs are hot and ready to go whenever I need them, but my calloused hands are fumbling with them whenever I feel the Wizard's aura effect me. I can't appreciate my writing anymore, and I do it out of habit rather than out of joy and inspiration. Writing has become more of a chore than walking the dog on rainy days.

I'm scared. I love (loved?) writing so much and it is truly the root of my existence. Without writing, I wouldn't be anything that I am today, from how I dress to how I speak. I fear that Wizard will take over my life, and she is. Everyone just relays that fact to me over and over again, instilling more of a fact than something to make me angry enough to change. That's why there have been fewer interesting posts here, too, as I feel too guilty to blog, as much of my fiction time was converted into blogging time as I hated my writing more and more. It's nothing like the wizard's, I tell myself day after day, You're simply too far behind. Her mother wins writing contests, and your mother quit. Why should you continue? If the wizard follows her mother's footsteps, then you will, too. 

I knew I had to do something, so I tried to find what separated Wizard and I, writing-wise. I was much more professional and could effectively write in several different styles, whereas many of her stories were about lion-like sword-wielders whose main characters always died in the end from magical overdose. She wrote after Kingdon Hearts and anime, whereas I wrote after the smell of tea and people-watching (and eventual people-obsessing-over). But there was something startlingly different about how we presented ourselves. As my writing grew in popularity, I started to hide it more as to avoid peer pressure. Wizard gave her writing to her favorite teachers and grew to be the teachers' pets in all of her classes. I didn't want to put myself up to that par, so I avoided it, only shrouding myself in more guilt. Now, when we're in the same classes or situations, I avoid writing and speaking as a whole. I let her win every time, assuring myself that one day I'll strike a blow that makes me better, once and for all.

In the meantime, as I sulk on the weekends, I desperately try to enjoy writing again. I started writing about a girl who lived immortally by literally "dis-/re-placing" objects and people to feed off of experiences. I intend her to suffer a strong internal conflict once one of her interesting "catches" dies in a car crash due to a foul re-placing. I reduced myself to older techniques in order to both console myself and make it harder to share:

Writing in cursive is a technique that I learned in the second grade only to actually apply in the seventh. I was the victim of people reading over my shoulder as I wrote my stories, so I decided to write in a way that few could decipher. Those few happened to genuinely appreciate my writing. I feel like knowing how to read and write in cursive is a skill that only those literally dedicated can really take on. Since then, I write in cursive normally for my notes and papers. (My manuscript isn't so bad, but it's messy and ends up turning into cursive.)

If you've gotten this far, well, I wish I had something nice to give you. I'll be working on that. Have a good day!

Ruby

Tidbit of a Speech

I may not kick a soccer ball or catch a curved Frisbee like the next budding athlete,

I may not don high-heels and a scarf like a rising fashionista.

I may not look, speak, think, or at all be you, but (my school name), hear me out. There is one thing that remains true, one thing that will always be constant.

My name is Red, and I will never, ever be taken advantage of again.