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Stage Crew

I would like to dedicate a post to one of the things I actually enjoy doing in this world. There is a fictional story about my experiences on the crew for my high school in the Longer works-short story section of this site, but I feel as if the story was only hinting at the darker portions of the topic. So, without further ado about nothing, here is my article-like post about the infamous Stage Crew.

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Stage crew is a lonely place full of magic and mystery…

Summer time is always easier for everyone. There’s no school, people take vacations; everything is just more laid back, more relaxed. For people like me, who don’t have many friends and rarely step out of the house when they don’t need to, it can be awful. It can get boring, doing the same thing everyday. Waking up at noon and wondering why you even got up at all. It all puts this invisible pressure in place that stabs the point even further that there is nothing. You wake up, you do nothing, you sleep. Wishing that maybe summer wasn’t so laid back. Wishing that there was something. Summer isn’t easier for everyone.

I started Stage Crew the second week of Freshman year of high school. It seems like decades away, now. I had this image, this idea of myself on the stage crew, doing behind the scenes work, and going up to the catwalk and throwing confetti at everyone. No one would know it was me. Maybe it was for a reason, maybe I just wanted to make students smile and janitors frown. Maybe it was that every show is the best when there is confetti involved. I dont know. But the idea stayed with me through the entire eighth grade, and even more so that I found the stage- just barely as I had no clue where anything in the school was- and attended my first crew meeting.

Now, I know this probably doesn’t seem important or even a significant event, but it was. There were two other kids there, at first, and the director (who my former friend actually really didn’t like because in 7th grade she dropped a microphone and almost broke it and she got chastised). I was shown the around the stage and the PAC, or Performing Arts Center for all you liberals, which included curtains, tall ropes, an even taller ladder, stairs, sound booth, and sound and light boards, respectively. More people showed up, some of which were in my grade, and we took the grand tour which I’ve taken countless times now. The very last thing we got to see on the tour was the catwalk.

The catwalk is, still, my favorite place in the auditorium. Probably my favorite place in the school besides my hidden spot where I skip class- I mean. What. …Anyway, when we got up to the catwalk, it was amazing. I’m not a heights person, but I can tell you that I was not one of the people freaking out. I enjoyed being up there. Yes, it’s always a bit scary at first, especially when certain people think that jumping on it is a very comical thing to do to freshman, but being so high above all the seats and seeing the stage from such a view trump all fears.

After the first meeting, the actual crew part starts. I have to say I was a bit skeptical at how much effort it was going to take to put on such a highly anticipated show. But you learn, as you would learn anything else. The difference with this than learning social studies or english, is that with the crew, came the social tolerances and expectations. As a person with limited friends, it took time to be accustomed to things. I was just a freshman at the time, and this was fall, before winter came around and things got bad. I still didn’t feel like I belonged in the crew.

The set of people that our crew contained was actually pretty interesting. I’ll start with the director. He really enjoys what he does, I have to say that. There’s an odd, and at times annoying, passion for what we all do. The play is strangely important to him which I can only assume reflects back on some kind of childhood turmoil- I’m only kidding, Pat. The other kids, they all have their own story. There was the girl who was all into technology with a sister who was into sports. There were these twins, one of whom pushed me into a door whilst calling me a “Stupid freshman”. The other ended up ‘dating’ another crew member in some kind of strained relationship that threatened to succumb to the inevitable after only days. Dont worry about him, now is dating some other crew member, this one more girly. There are brothers, who act a lot like each other in some respects and very different in others, as you could imagine. There are classic ‘band geeks’ that actually have a pretty large social life. There was the goth chick who sassed our math teacher, and her boy friend with the most annoying speech impediment. There was her other boyfriend with obvious family issues and unstable emotions. And there were others that came and went.

Most of the people were pretty tightly knit with each other, always carrying side conversations. But as much as we are diverse, there really isn’t a whole lot of things different between us. Perhaps that’s why I never left the stage crew. For some reason, the people who stay, the people who are actually involved, belong. Not to mention the things they all talk about can be pretty hilarious, and, at other times, so explicit it’s funny.

We all joined for a reason. Maybe we were dragged into it. Maybe we just wanted to throw confetti, maybe we want to go into theatre, maybe it is just another thing to to. It is a good outlet, I have to say. If you can’t get all your emotions out at the shooting range, why not carry heavy objects and use power drills and make something that in the long run, you can be proud of. Not that I’m not proud of my bullet hole filled targets.

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Burglars ain’t got nothing on me

I did stage crew only a little bit last summer, and after a rough fall, I wasn’t sure if I was ready to go back full time this summer. But I did, and it was a good choice on my part. I say things like this lightly around them, it’s mainly a group of guys and one other girl so I can’t get too sappy, but we really do all connect. I’m not sure how other schools have it, but the thing we have going really works.

It may just be a club, another thing to do, but I think that it has changed me. I learned things that came in handy when I had to paint my room, and later the entire downstairs of our house. It is a thing that makes you feel useful. My father got to see the show we all put on last fall, and it felt nice to prove that going every day, sometimes until 11pm, was worth it. The outcome seems to always be worth the long hours and tedious tasks.

It is nice to have a hobby, a thing that you can call yours, especially when friends are busy with their own things. Stage crew made me realize how much time it takes to build things up. You can’t put up four walls and call it a house and move on. You have to measure, you have to adjust, you have to paint more than one coat. Four walls doesn’t make a house. Living in a rut everyday, doesn’t make a life.

Summer is a time to be laid back. Stage crew is more laid back in the summer, but it is the farthest thing from a rut. There are new challenges everyday. There are new things I get to hear everyone talk about. There is always something to do, and even when there isn’t, there’s always some movie (that I really don’t want to see) that we can watch. The energy thats there, even when we are all running on empty, is incredible. If it wasn’t for that first meeting, that first glimpse of a new reality, I don’t know what I would be today. Probably bored out of my mind.

Can I throw the confetti now?

Yes that is me reaching into a jug of screws.

(I stole this picture from the Stage Crew facebook page, in case of any copyright nazis out there)

Kylie Eileen,

AKA the girl with her hand in the jug of screws.

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Don’t make your main character so much like yourself

Write-What-You-Know

Ah, the old “Write what you know”. It’s something I’ve been hearing all my life, something that’s a part of society as a general rule, or guideline. How can you possibly write something that you don’t know about? Well, for one, there is google, but let’s discuss the character portion of this so called ‘guideline’. It may be what stands between you and that Pulitzer Prize in your future.

It is important for every writer to connect with their main character on some kind of level. You have particular goals for your main character, either good or bad, and they are the same goals that push the plot forward and keep readers turning the pages. Connecting with your MC is also effective when deciding what happens next, what he or she is thinking, and especially dialogue. But there comes a point when connecting too much is a problem.

I know that you’re thinking: But, Kylie, I am my MC. I am the one who is writing him and shouldn’t we be similar since we are sharing the same brain space?

Well, yes. But, no.

Let us take a step back and look at some very successful books. I call them classics, and in my other post “The difference between a novel, bestseller, and a classic” I discuss the main points that a classic book contains. In that post I stress that there are strict places only for thought and muddling over the works of the world within a novel. What I have left out was the characteristics of the Main Character.

Let’s look at one of my personal favorites, The Great Gatsby. I’m sure that Scott Fitzgerald connected with Nick and Jay alike and that connection gave him the will to write. But our man Scott wasn’t solely like either one in his real life. I don’t think he lived any lifestyle remotely similar to that of Jimmy Gatz before of after the days of writing exercises in a notebook. You see, he didn’t have to live in a mansion with parties that consisted of flappers and pianists in order to write such an amazing book. He was separated from Gatsby enough so that he look at the character and write it from Nick’s perspective.

Still not believing me? Let us take a look at another famous novel called Catcher in the Rye. When Salinger was confronted by tons of angsty teens, I don’t think he was thinking anywhere along the lines of “Aww sweet, man. People who hate phonies just like me!” Infact, I know this for sure thanks to a documentary which is on Netflix called, not so surprisingly, “Salinger”. He has told people specifically “I am a fiction writer” and I believe that he did so well as a fiction writer because he isn’t a duplicate of Holden Caulfield. He was different, and allowed himself to separate from the character. Sure they had things in common, smoking, I believe is one of those things, and they are both male, so more connections can be made there. But he wasn’t exactly like his MC.

The Movie “The United States of Leland” Is a brilliant film, which is told a lot like a visual novel, but also focuses on writing as a major theme. Hotness of Ryan Gosling as a teen put aside, there was one quote I remember specifically and it pertains to this very blog post. Paraphrasing: “Let me guess. You’re writing your first novel, which doubles as a semi biographic, and are on the second chapter. Me.” Now, the part of the first novel doubling as a book about himself (The male writer and also inspiring teacher role) really made me smile. As said in another post, I really don’t like the debut novels and this is one exact reason for why.

Writers want to write what they know. They know a hell of a lot about themselves. So why not write that? Incorporate a ton of your own characteristics and beliefs into your protagonist so it will be easier to write. Sadly, easiest isn’t the most effective. So to wrap up this long post, I feel that it is very important for writers to write what they perhaps know, but not what they know about themselves. Explore your main character’s unique thoughts. Make your main character nothing like you, and be able to live as someone else for the duration of time it takes you to write your piece.

write what you know dont

Kylie Eileen
Image sources: Um… Google Images…
Keep on writing!

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New Look!!

Trying out a more modern look, can you tell? Tell me what you think with a comment or send me a tweet. Like the old version better? Is this one too pink? This doesn’t have to be permanent, just letting everyone know I’m testing it out. But I can’t properly test without your feedback, so please share your opinion. Thanks!

-Kylie Eileen

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The difference between a novel, a bestseller, and a classic.

Every author dreams of this. Becoming a bestseller or a classic book that one day kids in school will read and either be amazed or bored. Either way, the teachers explain how great your writing is, how unique and advanced you can tell a story. People will write papers on your book, arguing over every little metaphor you have intertwined in your piece. But how do you get there? What makes books classics or bestsellers and how do underrated novels compare to these? Well, provided here is my opinion.

The novel

You can find it in a bulk section at a store whose main good isn’t literature. You stumble across it at your local library and read it because it appears to have potential. It is a debut, or only novel, by some young author who went to college and studied the perfect way to tell a story. And it’s not that good. It is written in that same voice every novel seems to be written in these days. Modern writing has that voice, you all know it. Most of the time, characters are meant to be spicy, but they are blander than water. No matter how many pages of flavoring you add to that water, it’ll always be water nonetheless. 

The novel, is in a sense, the same as the Bestseller. It’s new, overlooked at first, and modern. It has the expected plot twists, or it has none at all. And of course a boring book is a boring book, but you can distinct it from a good boring book. The novel has a small fan base with an author who is trying to do all the right things, and most likely is. They just couldn’t reach bestseller. Or they weren’t good enough, but bad novels are a totally different topic. 

After you’ve read through the novel, you’re either in a “meh” kind of state or you can’t believe how no one has ever heard of this amazing book you’ve found. How could no one have read it? It’s perfect. They did all the right things. But it’s not a bestseller.

The bestseller

You’ve either read it because it sounded interesting, or you have to go with what society tells you. Or you pulled a hipster and didn’t conform to the rules of reading and decided against this sappy teen love story that has millions hashtagging away at the essence of it’s glory. Maybe it’s an adult contemporary type of piece and soccer moms everywhere are compelled to buy, read, and then tweet about it. Whichever type of bestseller it is, it is a bestseller nonetheless and odds are, you’ll end up reading it. 

But are the novel and the bestseller so different after all? I don’t believe so. I think the bestseller is just the older twin of the novel. You see, both the bestseller and the novel tell the story in that voice, but maybe the bestseller has a voice with more relations to the reader. Maybe our bestseller has better descriptions and dialogue. Perhaps it’s that motif we keep seeing throughout the whole thing that melts our hearts. Whatever it is, the bestseller wins by a hair and the popularity keeps multiplying until you can’t leave a room without hearing that author’s name. But the twins both lack something that the classic contains.

The classic

You’ve all read it in either grade, middle, or high school. You probably hated it but love it now. Perhaps it is a romanticism or a victorian work or literature that for some reason people can’t stress enough on how good it is. Most bestsellers won’t become classics. I’ve seen shelves of bestsellers and almost all the names I’ve never heard of, much like the novels, huh?

The classic is a classic for a reason. And I will tell you why. Bestseller books have great descriptions. Pretty good character development. They’re relatable, they’re maybe even whitty. But they aren’t classics. The don’t contain philosophy. 

I understand you’re probably lost, but if you look at classic literature, there is less action and adventure, less physical description and more emotional description. For an example, let’s take one of my favorite books, The Catcher In The Rye. We can relate to Holden, everyone can on some level, and we understand the setting completely and thoroughly. But Holden rants. And rants. And goes on and on about life. In these rants are his ways of viewing life. Almost every sentence is quotable in his rants, thats how much ‘philosophy’ and emotional depth we have here. This is the addition that I feel makes bestsellers into something more. 

I said before that Holden was quotable. Most classic books are quotable. The Great Gatsby is another example. It’s extremely quotable, has great description, and even goes into the deep emotional parts where nothing is said, no plot goes, but there are things being worked out within our character. And bestsellers, along with novels, do this at a minimal. 

Overview 

All in all, I think and I hope that I have made my ideas clear and understandable. The novel and the bestseller run hand in hand, while the classic literature exceeds them both with far more traits than what I have mentioned. Hopefully someday, if not already, I can have your bestseller in mind when writing something of this sort. Keep in mind, also, that this is just my opinion. I do understand the many other qualities which go into all three of these categories and determine the success of each one. Hopefully these qualities will make, and not break, you and your writing. 

Kylie Eileen

 

Thanks for reading! Please share your opinions below in the comments or send me a tweet as I am always open to everyone’s ideas. I can write today because I got my cast off and can more freely move my fingers and wrist:) More posts to come soon- as always, keep on writing!

 

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Won’t be writing for a while…

Hello everyone!

Sadly, I have fractured my wrist and the cast prevents me from typing with two hands. So, for the time being, I will be taking a sad break from writing. Hopefully the cast will be off within the next month or so and I can continue to post blog posts, but for now, I’ll be stepping away. Thank you for your support and keep on writing- and don’t fracture your wrist!

-Kylie Eileen

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Animals

For Hannah

When you wake up, they’re there. Leaping on your bed, happy you’re awake. They’re hungry, they want their breakfast to be eaten out of that same bowl they’ve always had. To hear that bag rattle with food makes their mouths water. You are their savoir. You are the one who feeds them, bathes them. You are the ones who love them.

You leave. Going to work or school or shopping. They will watch out that same window, fogging the glass pane with their breaths which pant and beg you to come back inside for one more pet, for one more cuddle. When will you get back? Never? You’ve been gone forever, they say. They think they’re all alone now and they’ll have to fend themselves. So they watch the house, make sure no one comes in until you get back. Keeping an eye out, patrolling the halls. Making sure you are happy when you get home.

Then the door opens. And there you are, and there they are, greeting you. It’s been so long!, they say. It’s been so long and I’ve missed you and I love you and you weren’t here and did I mention that I loved you? You say that you love them, too, and that you’ll be here now. You wont leave until tomorrow. So now you are together. And you curl under a fleece blanket on the sofa and you play mindless but fun games to pass away the time. The time isn’t enough. It’s never enough.

So the next day when you leave you give them an extra treat or an extra little kiss on the head. Grab your keys and head out the door, but before you go, look at that window. That window with the glass, still foggy.

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I don’t know what I want to do with my life

A brief essay on my future

You know, I really don’t know what I want to do with my life. When I try to think about my future, I just imagine myself, standing there, looking much older than I am right now. I am not doing anything. I’m just standing there with an interchangeable background still. What is my job? What is my life like? Am I happy? God, I hope I am. Because with the way adolescence is treating me, you’d think I will never be happy. But maybe I chose my future so particularly that I am forced to be happy. Maybe my future ends up good and easy going. But how do I get there? I don’t know. I don’t even know what I am doing tomorrow, let alone with my life.
I’d like to do a lot of things. Getting an idea for a future goal really isn’t my problem. I have wanted to be a psychologist for a long time now. But I don’t know if I am so committed to nine years of college for a doctorate. Then there is writing. I’ve always been good at that yet somehow I manage to fail English class because I hate doing homework. If I hate homework I don’t know if nine years of school is a good idea. But with writing, you see, there is all these deadlines and learning about Victorian literature and French philosophy. I just want to write, and get paid. So, then, there is this totally different idea of becoming a filmmaker. Ever since I was a little kid, I loved making movies and recording things. I recorded over my great aunt’s birthday film just to practice bootlegging in my grandparent’s living room. I know, and yes, I got in trouble. But no matter how much I love the art of film, and trust me, I watch a lot of movies, my mother doesn’t see it as a practical idea to land myself some money and a stable career.
I can’t go to medical school because I will throw up if you talk about veins or how we have a heartbeat. My science teacher literally had to stop giving her lecture during class because she thought I was going to vomit. She asked me if I wanted to leave the room while she talked about blood. I can stand the idea of blood, when being described in a literal sense. I am good at describing with the written word. But novelist isn’t really in the best interest, as said before. So journalist? Well, I don’t really care much for current news. I don’t really care much for people either, so becoming a sales person is also out of the option. I’d just be very cynical and rude all the time. “Buy this or I will stab you”. Yeah, I probably shouldn’t become a sales person. Or waitress; I don’t have much hospitality.
I couldn’t be an artist. I mean sure, yes, that one time in Studio in Art I drew a really good picture. But I don’t care very much for art. I like photography, but I hate photographers. What with their hipster attitude and putting everyday things in black and white just to give it a meaning. They’re always trying to find some kind of meaning. I couldn’t be an artist. I would look at an apple and be like “That is a nicely drawn apple” and someone would come up and try to tell me that it is the “Fruit of the world and the heart of God”. Speaking of apples, I’m not very good at transitions. Nevertheless, I couldn’t become a chief. I burned my hand one time on the top of an oven while taking out a casserole and because of that very traumatic event, I make all my friends take food out of the oven now. You can give me the thickest mitts ever and I’d find a way to manipulate someone into taking those already burnt cookies out for me. So there are two more paths I cannot take.
Let’s just get all sports out of the picture right now. I can barely walk up stairs. Do you really expect me to go work out when there is a perfectly good couch right there? I don’t really like most sports, anyway. The sports I enjoy, I am not very good at. Well, I am not very good at any sport and that right there is exactly my point. I’m not going to become an athlete. I don’t have very much will power. “Hmm I could go for a jog but oh look some Oreos are all alone why don’t I bring them some joy”. I also couldn’t be a physical therapist. As I said before, I am not a people person and touching these same people, who are sweaty, nonetheless, and making them move in all sorts of positions really isn’t what I want to spend my life doing. I don’t even like shaking hands with people. When I was younger, I would wipe my hand off after people gave peace in church. The catholic school teachers didn’t like that very much. But then I moved into public school where sweaty hands are the norm.
I really couldn’t be a teacher. No offense to teachers, but unless your life is exactly like every cliché movie where the teacher with the troubled past reaches out to troubled kids and you all live happily ever after, I don’t want to become part of a schooling system. If I was an English teacher I would hate the novels they made the kids read and make them do writing tasks, because, hey, I like writing. If I was a history teacher all I would be doing was looking out for the kid like me who actually thought of an easier way Hitler could have gotten rid of all the Jews. Putting this disturbing fact aside, I couldn’t be a science teacher because most sciences either disgust or bore me. I like some aspects of science, but there is usually math involved. And if I was a math teacher, well let’s just say that this would only be occurring if we were in a place called hell. Hopefully I could somehow defend my way out of that situation.
I’m a good arguer. I think so at least. Why? Do you have proof I am not? I’d like to talk to your lawyer. No. I can’t become any part of our government and that includes lawyers and attorneys and tax officials. I don’t want to study law and learn laws and read Latin. For a while, back in Middle School, I wanted to become a lawyer. But then I read all the courses you have to take, and how long it takes and the bar exam and I got completely overwhelmed. I also, like many others, don’t really care to work in the government. Don’t worry I won’t be holding a sign at a rally, explaining the corruptness of it. I’ll just be standing with my background still, wondering what in god’s name I’m doing with my life. Perhaps a lawyer can explain it to me.
And then there is always the option of going to a four year college and working in a cubicle and hating my life. But I can’t sit still during a three hour exam let alone spend eight hours a day doing paper work. I can’t hear phrases like “The copier is jammed” or “Open Microsoft Excel and make a new template”. I refuse to sit at a computer screen and read memos and listen to that sound a fax machine makes. Do people even send faxes anymore? I can’t hear Cisco phones ring and padded feet on carpet. I just couldn’t. I would lose my mind. I would be the one to set the office on fire and watch outside, sipping from my foam cup filled with coffee, as ashes and soot fall onto my well-pressed blazer.
So, what do I do? Who do I become? Standing in front of a background still, if that is even a thing, is that even a real thing? Did I make that up? The point is I can’t stand in front of some random city, while people busy by. I can’t just stand somewhere, like an open field, in everyday clothing, in an everyday mood, ready for the world. I don’t know what I want to do. I can’t go and ask my future self “Hey, does everything work out? What are you doing? How is your life? Are you happy?” because that’s not how the world works. I hope I end up happy and free yet contempt with my finite and confined life. It seems like a hard thing to accomplish now and days. I don’t know what I want to do.
I know that, at the very least, I want to change. I want to become a better person than I was and that I am. But how do I get there? By seeing the world and traveling places, or by simply opening my eyes in the small town I am in? Do I talk to more people, or do I shut myself out and somehow hope that my mind finds the answer with solitude? You see, there is no true answer. Life is paradoxical. You find a way to make your life work, or you don’t and that results in other people’s lives working and that results in your life working. Maybe you are meant to help people. Maybe you are meant to help yourself.
Some people go through life thinking every plan is made out for them. That they have a destiny, that everything will work out for them if they simply do one thing: let it. You see, I don’t know what I am going to do with my life. But I know I am not going to wait around for this so called destiny to come and grant me every wish like to find love and meaning and happiness. Life is paradoxical.
In order to let destiny happen, I believe, you must first choose what happens to you. And your choice will lead to your fate, to your true destiny. But your fate is the one that made you choose. But, you must choose for yourself. You are in charge for your future. And it is funny, really, that I still don’t even know what I am going to do tomorrow. Because that is just it. You don’t know- at least, I don’t.

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Second Person Narrative

You look outside your window. It has snowed a lot since the last time you were able to muster enough energy to get out of bed, and see. All that white powder, layered on top of itself. It makes you think, doesn’t it? There must be four or five feet of snow out there, outside and below the window. The kids who live down the road are probably playing out there, right now, in all that snow. They are probably making forts and digging holes and having snow ball fights. Remember when you were young, and you had snow ball fights? Remember running, and playing? Remember being outside?

You used to make the best snow forts. You were the master of all the snow forts, they said. You would pack down each handful, layer after layer, until a wall was built. And then you would make the other kids build walls, and so it went. Soon, the fort would be amazingly tall and would protect you from dragons and evil invaders of the other kingdoms. Your snow fort was the best; it had rooms and snow ball chambers. It had tunnels and wood planks to hold up the many stories that would intertwine within the entire castle. You had fun. You loved the snow.

More snow flakes, these big, white ones, fall down outside the frosty window. You place your hand on the window and feel how cold it is, the small thin sheet of ice melting under your hands. Your hands are too warm. You take the coldness on your hand and put it on your face. That feels good. Do it again. Cool down your rosy cheeks and your reddened forehead. And now the window doesn’t have any white, crispy frost anymore. So you sigh, and lean against the wall that lines this window seat, and close your eyes.

“Lyn,” You hear and open your lids. Mother is standing in the doorway. “Lyn get back into bed, darling,” She orders. Don’t you hate mother when she orders? Always telling people what to do. “Lyn,” She warns, after you don’t do anything.

“I am just sitting,” You say softly. “It isn’t as if I am running around in the snow,”

“You need to rest,” She demands, placing her hands on her hips and gripping the hand towel in her hand tighter. Always carrying around some kind of cleaning supply.

“I am resting. I am sitting,” You tell the woman. She sighs and looks at the wooden floor.

“Are you hungry?” Mother asks. You shrug. You’re not hungry but they all want you to be.

“No,” You say.

“Very well. If you do get hungry I will be back up in an hour or so, all right?” She asks. You are supposed to tell her it is all right and not even a bit wrong.

“All right, mother. Goodbye,”

“Goodbye, Lyn. Get back to bed soon,” And she leaves, seeming still distressed. The visit was worthless, you know, but she is just being kind. You know that, right? She is just being kind and making sure you’re okay. But it is not all right.

“Someday,” You say out loud, watching the snow fall. “Someday I will be outside again. Someday I will live again. Someday I will-” It is a shame you start coughing. It is a shame you have that thing, what is it called? Tuberculosis, you think. Tuberculosis and something else. They won’t tell you what the something else is. Truly a shame.

How many years has it been? You think about it. Three years sitting in this room. You used to, when it was not very bad, go throughout the house and play with the cats and just stay indoors. But a few months ago it has been nothing but sitting in bed all day, waiting to feel better. Remember that week when no one could come and see you? That’s when your mind went like this. That week when you talked to no one. Was it more than a week? It felt like decades, don’t you remember?

“Decades,” You say. “Decades of living like this. I hate living like this I hate it I-” And there it is. Cough cough cough. “You hate living like this,” You say. “You hate living in a room forever. You have to leave. You have to go out in the snow again,”

“Lyn was that you coughing?” Mother asks from down the hall, dusting, presumably.

“Fine, mother,” You say. You will be fine. She does not answer. “You will be fine,” You say aloud.

And you will. You just have to watch the snow and remember it and then you will feel better. Life used to come forever and then it only came in these small bouts. And then it stood still. And now you are here. It is funny, isn’t it? How life works out like that. The frost is back on the window so you trace your hand on the fog and draw a line, bit slowly make it break and then stop it all together. Just like your life.

“Funny how it works,” You say. “Funny how you are not a self anymore,”

“Lyn,” Mother calls, again. She opens the door with a book in her hands. “Care to do some reading?”

“No,” You say. “Would not care at all,”

You would not care?” She asks. “At all?”

“Precisely.”

 

Hey everyone! I hope you enjoyed my example of a second person narrative. I wrote this a little while ago because my English teacher and I had a conversation months back about second person narratives. I know, I am such a rebel, writing these things and breaking the POV rules. Comment below on how you felt about it. Was it awkward? Did you feel violated that the narrator was in second person? I’d love to know! As always, keep on writing!

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Indifference

You all have seen them before. Those little specks that float around in your sight, and when you move your eye to the right, they move too. You can’t focus on them, ever, and they get more noticeable the less you actually try to notice them, which is truthfully annoying. You see similar ones when you look at the sun, in a nice, straight line perpendicular to the sun’s brightest spot. Those specks, I call them. The specks that are not always circles, sometimes blotches, sometimes lines, sometimes a box, or triangle. But they’ll always be there. Not every day, not every week, but when you finally forgot they exist, they’ll show up. You don’t have to respect these, or pay truthful attention to them. You don’t have to hate them, or love them. Most of the time, if you blink they go away. I’d like to think they go way back in your memory, so deep you’ll never let the though resurface and you’ll never remember truthfully those exact specks again. Or maybe, when you blink, you kill them and erase them from total existence.

Some people say they are white blood cells, and some say they are specks of dust or dirt. Some say they are just light or a small defect in your eye at the time. I don’t want to believe any of those. I honestly and truthfully do not care what they are. But they are there, and I notice them when they come over to my sight, those specks. I do not hate them. I do not love them, who does? I’m indifferent toward the specks that show up in my vision. I can simply blink them away, can I not? I am indifferent about them.

I am indifferent about most things, really. The fact we chose to keep going on simply on indifference really displays the indifference of society. The indifference of life.

 

Hopefully more to come, soon, as promised before! Thank you all for following and as always, please comment your opinion. Thanks so much, too, for staying even though I’ve been super busy with school. Keep on writing!

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So Hatefully Alone…

A special Valentines Day post

My eyes set into his. It’s cold here, in the evening of winter. Wair air emits from parted lips; his face is flushed with the chill of the air. 

I am here; I know. I feel his warm hands on my waist and his neck under my own two chilled hands. But, I am not here. I don’t feel the cold or the darkness. He is my warm darkness. 

He leans in and places his lips on mine. I feel his warm body press me further into the wall, every brick lining up against me. I taste his sent and our tongues begin to dance in the warmth of belief. His warm, comforting, hands snake down my back, separating me from the wall, sending warmth through my entire body. My entire mind. When he parts from me, I softly sigh. 

“I love you,” He whispers, the air clouding around his mouth as he speaks. I smile and tell him I love him as well and we kiss once again. My hands finger through his thick hair and feel the short, choppiness of it. When he parts again, he takes off his glasses, revealing deep brown eyes. I grin wider, feeling him kiss my neck up to my lips, every one exploding on my skin like magic. I then bring my hands to his flushed face, cradling his jaw to align with mine. 

He rests his forehead against my own as we breathe. 

I am definitely not here, in the snowy city. I am far away, somewhere warm. I must be. 

But, my eyes stare into his, watching the icy pools of obscurity,, and I know. He’s real. This, all this nipping air and lucid thoughts; this is all real. He told me he loves me. Words can be of a surer essence, they can know more than the person themselves know. 

And then I wake up. 

My eyes set into the ceiling and once again, I am alone.

Hey guys, thanks so much for reading. I’ve been trying to post more often, but it’s been a bit hectic with school lately. As always, be sure to follow and keep on writing!

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Once lived a day

There once lived a day when I talked to no one and lived an excruciating painfully life which only entailed the deepest, darkest depths of any ocean you can find. Perhaps my soul was the epithet of my life. For by which the outcomes didn’t seem to exist, I continued living in an utterly examinable entity. From afar anyone who dared to observe would not be surprised in any manner. The discerners would simply agree that my entire being was a pit of despondence and nothing more. The viability of my pith was nothing more than a train without fuel or a creature without endurance. Trudging day by day, I used to appear worn when I was dead and dead when I was alive. Neither personas nor imaginary outputs considered me as someone who could feel such a thing as happiness. Such things can elude a person for only a modest span of time, though, and there was a day that came when I saw the lambent aubade glistening in my amber eyes.

 

I”M BACK!!!! Yes, it has surely been a while, but i have been so busy with fall and doing a play (Tech crew) and winter with school and other stresses. I’ve always been here, though, at heart! I hope to keep writing and making more blog posts very soon!

As for this paragraph, it is the opening to a short story I have yet to finish… But someday, it might conclude. I used a large vocabulary to get the full effect and was going for a more Edgar Allan Poe style- without the ravens. 

Please comment and follow! As always, I’m on twitter @KylieEileen.

Thanks so much! It feels great to be back

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Blog update- Holiday edition

It has been some time since I have posted something on this blog, but I have been very busy lately! This November I spent most of my time at my High School working on the lights for our play. This December I have been busy with school work and Christmas things. Hopefully soon, I can get back into the swing of regularly writing for this blog, so keep holding on!

 

With Christmas, it can seem like too busy of a time to be writing and getting pieces done. What you should keep in mind during holiday seasons is the inspiration that can come from certain times of the year, be it Christmas, Hanukkah or Boxing day! Looking around at lighted streets and snow (or palm trees) brings the holiday spirit into most hearts (unless, of course you are fond of acting like a grinch). This energy and life of certain times of the year are nice gateway moments that lead into that novel or short story idea you’ve been looking for.

Tis the season to be writing! Falalalala lalalala! In my own experience, I tend to write with bounce in my fingers when things are happy or exciting. So this holiday, look around and open your eyes. People watch around a decorated mall or festive street. Do things that can get those ideas flowing! And most of all, have a great holiday! (And a happy new year!)

-Kylie Eileen

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An intro I have written

This is an intro to a rough draft of my second novel. Nothing I have ever written is published (yet). I chose to post this to give an example of a fast paced and developmental introduction.

It was a hectic Sunday morning in the Ravenswood household. Feet were padding around, looking for Sunday things; Shoes, papers, people. Names were called through corridors of the small level three house. Breakfast, toasted bread, was quickly being eaten as to leave on time. Hair was being combed fast but gentile as to rush out the door. Small whimpers of children pleaded to not leave. Calm adult voices reached over walls, urging others to keep moving. But while people moved quickly, the things in the small house sat still. The government issued newspaper sat unread on a kitchen table. Ancient photographs of two people standing on a dock in front of the ocean stood patiently on the mantel. Paintings of the sun hung sadly on the off-white walls. And, a clock ticked away the time every second. It was nearing seven. Church started at seven.

The Ravenswoods were a small family of only four people. Two parents, a mother and father, and two children, a boy and a girl. The family had lived in level three for six years, as long as Coriander, the oldest child, has lived. Jarreth, the younger child was four. Most people of level three would never guess that Coriander and Jarreth were siblings. Coriander had dark hair with deep brown eyes, while Jarreth was blonde with light brown eyes, just like his mother, Mae. Mae Ravenswood was then 23 years old and married to Taren Ravenswood, who had just turned 27. They had their first child two years after they met each other for the first time. The family was a loving one; they had friends in level three who would call them a perfect family with no flaws at all. This of course, was a lie.

Kylie Eileen

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Moaning- Paragraph

Moaning. The sheer sound of a person’s half asleep subconsciousness crying a plea to take back what they had done before, makes me cringe. A contorted face, seeming like something unlovable is whining, crying, yelling for no reason. Drops of drool pleadingly fall off the desperate, confused lips of the moaning person. They show the carelessness in the placement of the slacking body, draped like a curtain over a couch or floor. Through grinding teeth, I watch as the moaning person opens diluted eyes and sees nothing but filminess. And filminess is a representation of their life. Only faded views and self hatred brought the person there, lying, moaning. With stale breath, they continue to live, to breathe each lung full of air, allowing their stone cold hearts to beat.

Overview coming soon, so keep checking up on it!

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Last Meal

It is a weird combination of food on my plate. Freshly cooked green beans, scalped potatoes and chilly with wild rice in it sit on the off-white plate on the counter. I asked for it, though I haven’t eaten any of it yet. I’m not hungry. It has been a long day.

Just this morning I was on my living room couch, watching the daily news. Everything was normal and well and fine, as it should be. The couch was rough and old; the ten-year-old TV flickered every few seconds. It tasted starchy and felt like liquid cheese on my tongue. There were bread crumbs. Swallowing was easy.

That afternoon was when things took a wrong turn. I had been getting into bad things; bad people were always surrounding me. I found myself in an alley way with a gun in my hand; it felt cold and unusual. Blood was all over the man in front of me and his eyes rolled in the back of his head, not wanting to see his last sights. It tasted spicy and meaty. I felt the grain go down my throat and there were some black beans, too. Swallowing came hard, but I managed.

Now it is night, and I cannot eat the green beans. There were five of them- the number of years I’ve been here, reliving the moment when the cops came and pushed me into the snow, screaming at me not to move. I didn’t move.  I didn’t breathe. I knew what I did was wrong but none of my peers believed my reason, so for five years until tonight, I’ve been here. It tastes slightly moist and chalky. I feel the last drop of water on my tongue as they hit the red button and I am gone.

This idea came thanks to my mother, who cooked this meal for dinner tonight. It reflects on how people look back on their life as if it were in a day.