Logan (For lack of better title right now.)

The day has been so long. She remembers the fight and the chase, the tears and the anxiety… Logan opens her eyes and somewhere inside herself, she screams.

It is dark and the dank air smothers her, chokes her. She can taste bitterness and trepidation on her dry tongue and scaly lips, feel it within the folds of the satin below her. She raises her arms and the fear intensifies as her hands grasp more satin in the limited space above her. The satin begins to rip as her hands uncontrollably shake, disintegrating between her fingers. Beneath the aged satin is wood, which she pounds with both hands and feet, weakening the lid of the coffin in which she is lying. The wood splinters, allowing dirt to seep in. This does not slow her punching or kicking down. She breaks through the damaged wood with her feet. The broken pieces scratch her legs and blood drips down her calf as dirt pours into her sanctuary. She stops as the moist earth piles up at her ankles. She takes a deep breath and coughs, remembering with raw humor how thirsty she is.

After what feels like forever, a frigid breeze blows through the hole in which the dirt has come. She pushes her foot through the opening, through splintered wood and damp earth until there is nothing forcing against her. She realizes that there isn’t much dirt heaped upon her, maybe six inches. She pulls her leg back in, takes another deep breath, holding in the stale air and continues to pound her fists until they too break through, ripping a large hole in the destroyed coffin. She closes her eyes and mouth while fighting the dirt pouring in on her, and claws her way out. When she reaches the surface she looks around at the dilapidated graveyard in which she is now standing, panting for air. It is small and even though it is nighttime, she can tell it is overgrown and uncared for.

She sees a small marble headstone at the head of her grave, weathered with time and elements. It is crooked, chipped and surrounded by weeds. She pulls the stems back and rubs her hand over the lettering, Logan Rose Jones, 1985 – 2010.

How to Leave a Comment

This site is a writing outlet for my completely unedited rough drafts, however I am interested in feedback.

If you do not already have a blogspot account click on the "comments" link below any blog entry. Write your comment, under the "select profile" choose "google account", click the "post" link. This will then direct you to a page to "create a google profile"; it's just your email address, password, and a screen name that you create. You can then use this info every time you want to leave a comment!

Thanks!!! And happy reading!!!

Character Sketch - Jayne (Wittergate Witch)

(For those of you who already know, I am working on a book geared toward youth called the Wittergate Witch. This is something I wrote today to develop one of the characters for that book.)

Character Sketch - Jayne

Jayne is tall and thin, with knobby knees, and is as plain as her name, although she doesn’t know it. She has fine hair the color of tree bark that falls to her shoulders, straight and wimpy. Her top row of teeth is even and white, but hidden beneath her bottom lip is a crooked fence that only appears when she thinks no one is looking, which is rarely because she always thinks people are looking at her. There is nothing unusual about the sound of her voice, but her tone can bite like a rabid dog and most of the time her words are just as poisonous.

Sometimes, when she talks to boys, she’ll touch one of their arms slightly above the elbow, laugh a feline laugh, and bat her short eyelashes like she is waving away a small spec of dust caught in her eye. This makes them think she is pretty and charming, but she isn’t. They can’t see her for what she really is, which is a witch.

Not the pointy hat and wart on the end of her nose witch, but nevertheless just as evil, just as dangerous. Unfortunately, the only people in the whole town of Wittergate that recognizes her for what she really is are her classmates, Max and Olive. Max, who knows through and through that Jayne can cast spells and brew potions, although he’s never seen it, and Olive, who suspects that something is “off” and slightly catastrophic about Jayne, but tries to see the best in her anyway.

The Short Short Story

The short, short story is a challenge in writing a piece of ficiton in 250 words or less. This is my attempt today, however I'm a tad bit over 250 words. Enjoy.

This Too

Her hands are cold and pale, with chipped black polish on all her fingernails, which are impatiently tapping against the table they bought together at the flea market two summers ago. He had given the gypsy woman in the swirling turquoise skirt thirty-five dollars and laughed with his crooked teeth sticking out and his curly head bobbing all the way to their new home about what a steal this was. They had stayed outside that day under the scornful eye of the sun, sanding the wood by hand with little squares of gritty sand paper until the rough edges had been smoothed out and her muscles were aching from working so hard. She had run her hand over the grain and it felt like a warm, powdery blanket, too stiff to cover up with, but somehow radiating confidence and security as only a false idol could. They had slowly stained it a soft mahogany, not once but twice to make sure the color was even and deep. Two days later he had gotten mad at her, for what, she couldn’t remember now, and had slammed his glass down so hard it left a small indent on the polished table.

Her tapping hand stops with a slap across the now worn, dented, dull surface. She picks up her cell phone, dials his number, which goes straight to voicemail, and leaves him a message about how she hates him, and what a jerk he is for doing this to her, whatever this is, this time, and screams. She hangs up, throws the phone at the table leaving a fresh mark, sits back, and folds her arms across her chest. She waits two seconds, picks up the phone again and redials his number. This time she says, “I’m sorry. Call me back. I love you.”

Today's Inspirational Soundtrack

I have always wanted to be a writer. Not just the girl in her room writing poetry or the student who turns in creative writing assignments type of writer, but a real, published author of a work of fiction. A friend recently told me that she is so tired of hearing me say I want to be a writer when I never write anymore. It's true. Life got in the way. This blog is a brain storming project for me. I am looking for and creating inspiration from life as I experience it. Some things I post will be events, people, or other arbitrary entities that led to inspiration. Some things will be random ramblings of fiction. Sometimes you, reader, won't be able to tell the difference. Either way, it's a journey, destination unknown. You're welcome to come along and experience the highs and lows of writing, the bursts of creative energy and the frustrating writer's blocks.

Today's Inspirational Soundtrack
1. Drew and the Medicinal Pen - Tomorrow Will Make It Up
2. 100 Monkeys - Sleeping Giants
3. Modest Mouse - Float On
4. Muse - Feeling Good
5. Flyleaf - All Around Me (Acoustic)
6. Jack Johnson - Good People
7. The Killers - All These Things That I've Done
8. Kris Allen - Falling Slowly
9. Linkin Park - What I've Done
10. My Chemical Romance - I Don't Love You
11. Seven Mary Three - Lucky
12. Snow Patrol - How To Be Dead
13. The White Stripes - Seven Nation Army
14. Staind - So Far Away

Let's see what comes of it...