Penance – Part Two

So I was in the car for a while, so another part got written! Yay! Probably after this it’ll slow down for a bit. Sadness.

Anyways, we last left off with Porter discovering that he’s essentially a “guardian angel” for a kid named Myrtle, who happens to be a technological pioneer.

Also, Myrtle is the only one who can see him.

You can read more about this here.

(oh and see the author’s notes at the bottom)

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White Lies

“This is where you live, hon?” I raise my eyebrows, surveying the broken down apartment.

“Yea. My uncle’s in there.” She shrugs, looking somewhat embarrassed, scuffing the ground. The shoes I thought were new before, I realize are just men’s shoes that are too big on her feet. 

“Ah.” I nod, remembering. 

Myrtle Bloom, saddled down with an alcoholic uncle who barely lets her go to school. It’s a sad story to read, really. If I were back on my couch at home reading her biography, I might even frown a little longer than normal.

But it all seems much more real when you can smell the whisky and see the broken chairs because they can’t afford any more. It’s much more real when a little kid that barely knows you is shrinking to cling to your side. You don’t see that in a biography, now do you?

Oh Myrtle, we’ve got to get you out of here. She’s stuck to my side like a parasite and I don’t have the heart to shake her off. Which is odd, cause I’m the type of person you’d think would shake off small clingy children. I normally would too, but this is different. 

“HEY!” A low voice yells, whisky running off his voice like water as he stumbles through the hoarded trash to find me.

“What’re you doing with my niece?!”

Ah, so he can see me too. Thanks council, it will make punching him in the face that much more fun. Perhaps it’s just Myrtle’s genetics that have the ability to see little ol’ me. Who knows? Who really cares?

“Child services, sir. We’re taking her away.”

Yet another lie I don’t feel bad about. That makes two in the past day. Nice. Or not, depending on your worldview. 

She tenses beside me, if she’s waiting for a no or a yes, I don’t know. I hope it’s not the former. I squeeze her shoulder and she relaxes a tiny bit. I get a better look at her overweight uncle.

Dreadlocks lie around his face, outlining those calculating beady blue eyes. He’s wearing a Hawaiian shirt stained with alcohol and he just reeks of it. His tan shorts are blotched with spots and I wonder how Myrtle’s made it this long semi normal and educated. The kid’s tougher than I thought. 

“Great.” He mutters, walking back.

“Wait, sir, I need you to sign this.” I say, quickly grabbing in my pocket for a crumpled adoption paper that the council handed me before throwing me to Earth.

They also gave me some money.

So thoughtful of them. Always preparing me for any outcome. A crummy adoption paper in case her uncle was still around and hadn’t drank himself to death, and enough money to last me a month or three. 

He grabs a pen out of the junk heap that he calls his home and quickly signs his name, transferring legal rights over to yours truly. Myrtle blinks a little bit beside me. I put my arm around her shoulder. Ugh. I don’t do touchy feely things.

“Get your things, kid.” I have never been so glad to leave a house in my entire life. 

She nods, sniffling. I don’t think she shares in my utter joy.

He just gave her away like she was nothing. I don’t normally find myself feeling sorry for people because they deserve what they get, but I feel sorry for Myrtle Bloom. 

“She’s a handful, that girl.” Her never sober uncle remarks, taking another swig of his bottle. I turn around. 

“I’ve been told I look scary right before I punch people between the eyes.” I remark, as calmly as if I were talking about the weather and not his physical wellbeing.

He blinks, staggering back.

Ah yes, being a guardian angel is pretty fun. 

Myrtle comes out with red eyes and a ratty blue backpack stuffed with clothes and a broken radio. She carries a faded green turtle blanket that looks like it’s been cried on and rubbed in the dirt. 

“Come on, Myrtle.” I say louder, giving her uncle a look and clenching my fist where he can see.

When she’s alongside me I kneel down and whisper. “Whatever you do, kid, don’t look back.”

She nods gravely, hugging her blanket to her chest to stop the leaking from her eyes. It’s funny, how you forget how young she is until she does something so utterly childish. I sigh a little bit. I’m not a nice person, but not even I would make her walk alone from her only family.

I put my hand out and she grabs my fingers in a death grip.

I am already regretting this decision. 

“I didn’t think he’d let me go that easy…” She says quietly once we’re down the road.

I sigh. Time for a motivational talk. I kneel down, looking directly at her eyes.

“Myrtle Bloom, I am not very good at talking, so I’m going to make this short. You are a wondrous creation and if you think for a second that your uncle gave you away because you are trouble or bad or it’s all your fault, then you are by far the stupidest child I have ever met.”

Pep talk over. 

She laughs a bit, rubbing at her eyes. “You’re funny, Porter. Thanks.” She gives me a watery smile.

Uncle Morris down, millions of more things life will throw at Myrtle Bloom to go.

She had a hard life.

It’s almost cruel, the way the council is making me pay penance. Scratch that, it’s the most unfunny joke that’s been played on me since Harold Creech made me think he was dying for three months. 

You save a life and mess with a timeline, and guess what your penance is? Decide what crap you’ll allow a little girl who just wants to be normal go through.

Thanks, Council, no really. If I didn’t already hate you, this might just clinch the deal.

Thankfully, you’ve already got my hatred, and all this does is make me even more sure of it. 

“How’re we going to live?” She cocks her head. 

I calculate about how much money we have and what an invisible person can do for work.  

“We’ve got enough for a couple months of apartment rent and groceries.” I think out loud, never so thankful that everything was cheaper in the 80’s.

“I can work.”

“No, out of the question. You are going to school.”

“What can an invisible man do for a job?” She says, dragging her blanket behind her as I wrinkle my nose up a bit.

I am definitely buying a washing machine. 

“Well, I can cross off acting.”

She laughs like it’s the most funny thing that’s ever come out of my mouth. My lips quirk upwards a bit as I wonder why children are so easy to please. 

“You could write the movies.” She says, laughing.

Wait. That’s an idea. I could write science fiction, borrowing from my own future and normal life and putting artistic license on it. 

“I can be a novel writer and an editor.” I say, rubbing the stubble on my chin thoughtfully. 

“Aren’t writers kinda…” She cocks her head, making a “crazy” motion around her head.

“A bit, yea.” I shrug and then my eyes widen. “Don’t you have school?”

“Today is Sunday. You really must’ve hit your head hard.” 

Oh right, back then they didn’t have school on the weekends.

“Know any cheap but not ratty apartments?”

“Down by Jen’s house, there’s a good complex. Pretty decent prices according to Mrs. Harrison.”

I nod. Now, just to figure out how to buy it invisibly. Perhaps I could pretend to be an eccentric person who is scared of people and just communicates over mail?

Yes, that’ll work.

“Got any paper?”

She pulls out a notebook and a pen and I begin to scribble my note in the margins.

“Take this to the manager.”

“Do you think it’ll work?”

“Money talks, hon, even if I don’t.”

She shrugs and puts her things by me, running off past the houses, streaking like a bolt of purple lightning, her jacket flying behind her. 

The End

Author’s notes: So I don’t really know exactly where I’m going to go with this. I have a vague idea of scenes I will write and who my villain will be and an eensy bit of dear ol’ Porter’s backstory. If you have an suggestions or ideas of what you think might happen or should happen, please tell me!Image result for so long farewell gif

Penance-A Story Beginning

So I came up with this beginning earlier today, and thought “Well, since everyone else is doing serial stories, why don’t I try my hand at it?” So if all goes well, and if people like the idea and the story, I might just do a serial story.

Cue fireworks of excitement.


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Any Landing You Can Walk Away From… 

I cough, the taste of dust and bone colliding down my throat and filling my lungs as I hit the ground with a crack. 

That can’t be good. I wince a little, feeling my tailbone. Hopefully I didn’t break anything?

I dust myself off, blinking at the sun that tries to scald my dark eyes and rubbing the dirt from my head. Oh well, you won’t be able to see it too much, since my hair’s already a dark shade of brown. 

Where am I?

Memories start flooding back into my head, memories of the council, of who I am, of where I am. Of what I have done. I clear that answer from my head, it won’t help me here. Best not to dwell on what we can’t change.  

“Porter Langston, by the power invested in me by the People and the State, you are exiled to Earth. Your penance? You must keep Myrtle Bloom alive and well, and protect her with your very life.”

It rings in my ears, vibrating through my cranium. It’s my only mission now. More important than my name, my age (25), my loves, my fears, my hopes. Myrtle Bloom is now my priority.

I don’t know how I feel about that.

I brush my hand over the gravel, looking up to see…

Nothing, really. Ordinary life. Kids are walking by, chattering loudly, women are walking by talking about men. Men are walking by talking about cars. But nobody sees me. How does nobody see me? I don’t remember dying. I wave my hand in front of my face.

Yep, still flesh and blood. So invisibility is out.  

I look around somewhat frantically to see a little girl watching me, her green eyes calculating but not unfriendly as she scuffs the dirt with her shiny new shoes. I suppose she can see me. I make a face, just to be certain. She laughs. I guess that’s a yes. 

Apparently I should become a comedian. I’m too relieved to be irritated with her. 

I look at her, trying to figure out where I know her from, because something about her face…



…oh. I remember now. 

I resist the urge to puke as my stomach turns in on itself. The infernal organ has a habit of doing that when it is least convenient. 

This is the girl that will make or break my life. The fate of my entire life rests in these scrawny dark hands. Tiny hands, matter of fact. 

I’m not sure I like this.

The green eyed girl’s name is Myrtle, and as of now, I’m her guardian angel.

“Who are you?” She asks, watching the expressions flit over my face like an old black and white slideshow.

I turn my head to stare at her. Brown meeting green in an odd contest.

I lick my lips nervously, which is odd. I never get nervous. Not like this. I get “hm this could be bad” nervous, not “shaking knees and dry mouth” nervous. “My name is Porter.”

“I don’t want your name.” She rolls her eyes. “Who are you to me? Why are you here? Nobody comes here, and if they do, nobody comes here to see me.”

Smart kid. 

“I’m…” I blink a bit, trying to figure out how to explain the future of the worlds and how there’s not just us and the council and everything to a little girl in a town back in the 80’s. This is a lot harder than I thought. 

She finally just rolls her eyes and walks her dark wiry form over to me and thrusts out a small nine year old hand.

“My name is Myrtle Bloom, and I’m going to change the world.” She grins at me, like she’s so amazing. I would be irritated, except I know who she will become, and yes, the girl is “so amazing”. 

You have no idea how much you’ll change everything, kid, no idea. I shake her hand back, marveling at how small it is in my calloused pale one. 

“Are you a ghost?” She asks, raising her eyebrows and looking at herself, her chest heaving with anxious breaths. “Am I dead?” 

“No, no, sweetheart, you’re not dead. I’m not a ghost. What made you think that?” I’ve been told I’m quite pale, but that is just offensive. I’ll have you know I tan a bit in the summer. 

“Nobody else can see ya.” She cocks her head. “They’re all looking at me like I’m some sorta crazy child.”

“Who I am is really complicated, and I can’t really explain. But somebody cares a lot about you, so they sent me to make sure you grow up alright.” Yes, this is a good explanation. Way to go, Porter. I just get done clapping myself on the back when she, as children are wont to, asks a hard question. 

“Was it my parents?”

“Yes.” I lie.

I don’t feel bad about it either. Oddly enough, I do normally feel bad about lying, if you can believe it. You probably don’t. 

She smiles a bit. “Kinda stupid, though, having a protector nobody can see.”

“Nah, honey, it’s better. That way they don’t see me comin’.” I let a grin stretch over my face. Ah, that feels better. Stretching out the old face muscles. 

She grins up at me and I smirk back. Smirking is like grinning, but more secretive.

Perhaps being a “guardian angel” won’t be so bad after all. The kid’s pretty smart, after all. It’s not like I’ll be babysitting an idiot. 

I have a feeling I’ll be taking that statement back soon. 

She winks at me, as if she knows what I’m thinking. “So, Porter.”

“Langston. Mr. Langston.” 

“So, Porter,” She continues, blatantly ignoring me. “I’m assuming you’re either a time traveler, an alien, or something else.”

I blink.


“Time traveler.” How did she…

Never mind.

“Nice. Bring any nifty gadgets?”


“Some future man you are.” She rolls her eyes. “What’s the point of the future if it isn’t all fixed up?” 

Hon, I keep asking myself that same question. 

Because honestly, the future is more messed up then the past.

The End (for now? Maybe?)

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The Book-Room Challenge

One of my new favorite blogs to read is Write Fury’s Blog, and one of these challenges caught my eye.

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So without a further ado, I present the rules of the Book-Room Challenge!


  1. Write 3 of your own books as rooms. They can be finished, works in progress, or even just ideas, but they have to be your own.
  2. Write 1 of your favorite books to read as a room.
  3. Tag 5 other people.




We Left When The Leaves Did:

A dark, slightly rundown room, vines growing up the sides. The floor is wooden and creaks as you walk in, your hand tightening around the brass knob. There’s hip hop playing in the background, and a pair of hoop earrings are left on a pretty ornate desk. There’s a shaggy grey carpet in the middle and an open window that lets the rain in. You hear people talking but you can’t make it out. An old gas lamp that almost looks otherworldly lights up the room. Items are tacked to the wall that definitely look alien. There’s a sci-fi teleport in the corner that’s dimly lit up. As you leave, you could swear you heard the distinct sound of magic.

A Sonata for the Changing Times: 

A brightly lit sun room, delicate curtains swaying in the wind. There’s a dark piano in the shadows of the room, a knife lying along the top of it. On the other side, there’s an easel, an unfinished painting titled “Wolf” is on top of it. It looks like a man, but you can’t see half of his face. Sheet music with jagged handwriting is scattered on the light wooden floor as the paint that was peeling off the walls join it. A chandelier hangs from the ceiling, sending pinpricks of light across the sheet music. A cup of coffee is carelessly left by the easel, lipstick marks along the edges of the cup. A cup of tea is left by the knife. Books are stacked up with a bowl of flowers at the top.


The Little Storm Child:

A small apartment room, a tiny grey couch by itself on a concrete floor. Light purple flowers decorate the wallpaper as the clouds gather around the window. Violin music plays quietly out of an old tape recorder. A blue blanket lies on the couch, and a green carpet lies across from the couch. A diamond set of chimes lies in the corner of the room, casting rainbows across the room. A set of bows lies forgotten by the tape recorder, and purple ballet shoes are scattered on the floor.

A favorite book to read:

The Giver:

A black and white room with spartan furniture, a bowl of bright red apples on the coffee table. The sky has no sun or clouds in it, just grey stretching for miles outside the window. Scattered along the room are bright colors. A messy handprint proudly displayed on the wall, a red throw blanket on the couch. A purple lightbulb hangs from the ceiling. A pair of glasses sit on the table by the apples on a blue cloth.

A cold blue light fills the room, flickering off of the bike lying in the corner.


I nominate Dreamer from Touches of Euphoria

Erin from The Upstairs Archives

Joshua from Letters From Skylark Drive

Hope from Stitches Of Freedom

And lastly, Houdinian from The Houdinian.









Here’s Your Roses…

Hello Readers,

This is my Dad’s story. This is my history. I have heard these stories so many times I joke I could tell them better than him.

So we’re going to test it.


Here’s Your Roses- They’re Dead!

I had just been married to Amy for a year or so, and Valentines Day rolled around. So, what did I do?

What I thought any new husband should do.

I ordered a dozen red roses. However, what I did next was not the smart thing to do.

I left them in my car, because I didn’t want the guys at work to make fun of me. I rolled the windows up and left them on the seat. Now, this would have all been fine and well if it hadn’t been a burning hot day.

But it was.

After a long day of working, I got in my car, preparing to drive home and present my wonderful wife with a dozen red roses. Then I happened to glance over and see what had happened to them while I was working.

Turns out, leaving them in a hot car in any season is a bad idea. Who knew?

They were as dead as dead can be, wilted and brown, looking nothing like the wonderful bouquet I had envisioned. They were also pretty darn expensive, so my money and my pride had both taken a turn for the worst.

I drove home, getting madder and madder with every stoplight I passed. Finally, I got home, and by then I was so mad I had a scowl to rival my old gym teacher’s.

I opened my car door, grabbed the dead roses and marched up into my house.

I strode in and threw the roses on the couch, the scowl growing deeper on my face.

“Here’s your roses! They’re DEAD!”

“What… what does this mean!?” Was the response from my startled wife.

Amy started sobbing, and it took about fifteen minutes for both of us to calm down.

We laugh about it now.


New Look!

Hello Readers,

If you’ve been here for a bit, you probably noticed the new layout of the blog and the sad absence of Sam.

Well, school, driver’s ed, and music have just been really busy for him lately so he decided to take a bit of a breather, so I’ll just be maintaining and writing the blog for the foreseeable future.

But because of school and transition, it’ll probably be pretty sporadic.



Everything Begins Somewhere

Hey there Readers,

Every once in a while, I’ll get an idea for a random scene or a random story beginning, so I thought I’d write a couple of them down and show you.

The first time I saw fireworks, I was six years old. It seemed as if we were at war with the night, sending bursts of raging swirls to combat the icy blackness that threatened to swallow us. I watched the war that raged between man and nature.

The colors bloomed across my vision, sending bright spots dancing across my eyes like wayward fireflies. I heard cheering but it sounded muted, having become white noise to the explosions that littered the sky like confetti on a dirty street.

I think it was those bursts of color, streaming fearlessly to combat the inky dark that I was told was where the monsters and bogeyman lived that first inspired me to be great.

Other people have heroes, but I just had fireworks.


The lights flickered on and off, reflecting off the slightly bruised watermelons in the cart. The odd chatter floated through the air, clashing with the loud Taylor Swift single playing.

I suppose it was an ordinary day, but I thought something could happen. Something always does, doesn’t it? Something odd that makes us wonder and marvel.

I guess you could say I live for these odd moments, these conversations, the things that make this world seem more alive, more colorful for a brief moment.

Today, my burst of color was a conversation. Tomorrow, it could be a person.

Who really knows?


Laughter, the smell of hot koolaid, and an impromptu reading of “Phantom of the Opera” filled my senses as I looked in the mirror at my dyed hair.


A frantic phone call, worried I had messed it up, only to hear a reassuring low voice on the other end. All was well, I was forgiven, and it ceased to exist.


Cold snow fell, dewy on her black hair as she stood and laughed at the world that had scorned her for so long. It was not a bitter angry laugh but a laugh of pure joy, of knowing what and who she was. She was not afraid anymore. What was there to be afraid of?                                                                                                                                                                                              

  For she was loved.


I met him on the old playground, remembering days spent there as a kid. He sat beside me on the swings without a word, the rusty chains squeaking under him as he sat on the cracked green seat. 

“I heard about your friend…” He said, his brown eyes wide with sympathy that I don’t know if I wanted to see or not.

I sighed a little, determined not to cry this time. “Yea.”

“I’m sorry.” He said, looking back down at his feet. Mine still dangled. Cons of being short, I guess. 

“So am I.” I finally looked at him, standing up and he followed.

He hugged me as I cried. 


I held him tightly before handing him back to his mother after cleaning him up, looking down into his baby blue eyes and soft black hair, knowing that this was a miracle.

“You’re a mother now.”

She cried and I held her hand as she smiled at her new baby boy. 




The Little Storm Child

Hello Readers,

So I was inspired to write a bit of a short story today after I watched the storm that rolled into my small town. I hope you enjoy it!

She was standing in the middle of an old concrete parking lot when I first saw her. The cracks spread through the concrete, past her discarded dirty pink flip flops and right under her bare feet. Her hair was what I first saw, tangled up in flowers that flowed down her back. She had her arms outstretched towards the sky, laughing like there was nothing bad in the world.

I parked my old pickup truck in the gravel, turning the broken handle and muttering about what an antique it was. I don’t know why I walked over, because ever since I’ve turned 80 I didn’t really want to see small children. It reminded me that I had no grandkids, and I was all alone. But this time, I went over to the blonde haired girl. 

“What’cha doin’ there, honey?”

She turned to look at me with these bright blue eyes, full of laughter as she pointed up to the sky. “I came out to watch it rain.” Like it was obvious and something everyone did. 

I laughed a bit, the first time I had laughed that day as I agreed with her. “I guess I did too.”

She laughed with me, and began chatting at me, talking to me about butterflies and such nonsense that I didn’t understand half of. She told me her name was Lilac though, and her favorite color was the color of storms. She told me her Momma drew storms and hung them in her bedroom.

“I’m Becca. Where are your parents, hon?” I looked around, worried that this poor little storm girl would be alone on such a day. She noticed my worry and smiled, as if she understood. 

She pointed towards a store where I saw a young couple talking animatedly. The woman had short spiky blond hair, and her hands were on her hips as she laughingly rolled her eyes at the taller man with bright blue eyes. I knew immediately that they were the parents of the little storm child. “There they are. They said I could come out and watch the rain. Don’t worry, I asked.”

“It hasn’t rained yet, sugar.” I got down on my old dark wrinkly knees to look up at the sky with her and wait for it to rain. I hoped that it would, just for her. I didn’t think about driving home in the rain, I didn’t even remember that I had come all the way out to town to get some fabric for my new curtains, all that existed in that moment was me, the storm, and Lilac.

“It will.” Lilac shrugged, spinning around again before sitting down beside me.

She turned toward me again and cocked her head. She studied me for a minute, and I unconsciously tangled my hand in my hair, something I hadn’t done in ages. I guess the gaze of the young make me nervous. Then she said the oddest thing, smiling like I had handed her diamonds. “I like your hair, it’s the color of lightning.”

“Really? I always thought it made me look rather plain.” 

“Momma says nobody is plain.” She smiled like that was something everyone knew and took my wrinkled knobby hands in hers. “I think you’re beautiful. I wish you were my Grandma.” Then she looked away and picked a flower as if she hadn’t said something that rocked my very foundations and brought tears to my antique gray eyes. 

And then it began to rain. It started off softly at first, and then it began to pour. Lilac stood up, and laughed. She laughed so much, that little storm child. She pulled my hands toward her and grinned widely. “Come on, let’s dance in the rain. It helped you find me.”

We carefully danced across the cracked concrete, a slow waltz that I scarcely remembered from ages ago, that I don’t know how a five year old knew. I think it was the happiest I had been for years. I didn’t want to stop my slow rain waltz with the little storm girl. 

Her parents came all to soon to end it. Their eyes sparkled like their daughter’s and they laughed as she told them about me excitedly. They invited me to their house for supper after Lilac proclaimed that it was storming and that old ladies shouldn’t be left alone in storms. 

I told them about how lonely I was, about how hard it was on the farm all by myself now that Earl had died, and how cats are lovely but they can’t talk back. I talked more than I had in a long time, and I cried and laughed more than I knew possible. All the while, the rain spattered against the windows. I learned to love the rain that day.

That was the day I met my granddaughter.

The Walls Saw It All

‘Lo Readers,

Imagine for a minute with me that you are a fly on a wall. If you were, you would see people at their absolute rawest. You would see humanity as it really is, and not what we portray ourselves to be. Take a dive with me into this world of being unseen.

A taller man wildly animates a story, his man bun flying side to side as he acts it out, the rest of the people gathered at the kitchen table laugh, some shaking or rocking back and forth. Photo albums are open at the table, and the stories continue to flow as the night goes on. Their voices break over a couple of names, but they laugh in the end, remembering what they all used to be and who made them who they are now.

The scene changes to a small red car parked outside a coffee shop. Two girls seem to have gravitated towards the middle of the car, the younger one shaking with quiet sobs and the older one murmuring quietly as she hugs her. It’s an odd mixture of love and heartbreak.

The scene changes to two little boys screaming and streaking through the house like hyper bolts of lightning, clothes forgotten and their hair still wet from the bath. Their words are indecipherable, but they are filled with an almost musical sound of laughter. You laugh along even though you don’t get the joke.

The scene changes to quiet conversations in the kitchen. An older looking man sits at the head, talking quietly while the others interject every now and then. Though they don’t always agree, you sense a level of respect towards the older man.

The scene changes to that kitchen table again, games being played with laughter and teasing involved. Every once in a while an irritated shout fills the room while the other players laugh and the irritated person chuckles in the end. 

The scene changes to an old fish restaurant where an entire table communicates with wild gestures but no words because the quiet game is in session. 

The scene changes to two young people playing Coldplay on their cello and piano, the adults poking their heads in every now and then and grandparents smiling quietly in the kitchen as music fills the house from corner to corner. 

The scene changes to irritated sighs and stomping away, computers left open on mine craft tabs by two young boys. 

The scene changes to four people huddled on the couch under a blanket watching a black and white TV show. One of them screams and the others jump wildly. 

The scene changes to a drive around the lake, stories flying around the car. The man driving is telling these stories, circling around old neighborhoods and remembering the people who shaped him. He’s not just telling these stories for fun, but he’s teaching lessons, hoping that some of it will sink into the young people in the car. 

The scene changes to off key singing and a piano and cello banging out “Don’t Stop Believin'”. It’s a little off tune and extremely off key but it is carefree and happy for that moment. 

The scene changes to discussions over huge mugs of coffee, filled to the brim with steaming liquid caffeine.

The scene changes once more as you manage to rip your eyes away from this raw and open state of life as you watch them around the kitchen table again, some talking loud and some talking softer, others just listening. And you smile to yourself then, because you know something now.

This is what real life is like.




Coming ‘Home’

Hello Readers,

How does it feel to be home?

Ah, I hear this question so much. What people are asking is how does it feel to be back in familiarity, in a house that I know, where the food is familiar and the language is mine.

But home isn’t that for me.

Home is my aunt hugging me goodnight like she can’t believe I’m there. Home is binge watching British shows with my cousin. Home is trampolines and pizza and avoiding trips to Walmart.

Home is sarcastic quips and jokes that take too long to get to the punchline. Home is waiting on my Gramma to hurry up and blow dry her hair already.

Home is this weird bunch of people that I love in the living room telling stories.

And what stories we have to tell. I could write a whole series of them, but I don’t think I ever will. Part of me is selfish and wants to keep these stories hidden away for myself.

I don’t want to share my home.

Because home isn’t a big red house with a white picket fence. Not for me.

Home is butterfly wings and cicada shells in my hair. Home is screeching laughter and bike rides. Home is a crazy wild thing that I do with the people I love.

I suppose it’s all perspective, isn’t it? My home is my stories of long summer days and cold winter nights.

And maybe one day I will share them, but for now, I’ll be selfish and keep them hidden away to keep me warm.



The Sea’s Calling

Hello Readers!


I’m sorry for the long hiatus, and I wish I had a good reason for it. I simply couldn’t think of what to write.

I don’t know how to write what I am feeling because I do not understand it completely myself. And if you can’t understand it, how do you explain it to other people? How do you explain things that you don’t know?

I’m scared. I’m happy. I’m excited. I’m nervous. I feel like a walking contradiction.

I’m moving, as some of you know, and I know it’s time to go. But the thing is, knowing it’s time to go doesn’t mean I don’t feel sad.

Lots of people think that kids like me, moving around a lot, don’t really care when it’s time to pack up and move because we can feel the sea calling. But we do.

I miss things, I’ve missed things my whole life, and that’s fine. It’s the way it goes, and for everything I miss there is something different to discover. Something new, something exciting, maybe something better.

It’s always scary walking out into the unknown, leaving what you do understand behind. You don’t know if this new world will accept you, or if you will accept it. But I have learned that there is always beauty to be found, always wonderful people to meet, and that everywhere you go there is God.

It all happens so fast. You talk and talk about moving, and you know it will happen, and then one day you wake up and somebody is moving your couch out, you’re taking down posters, and then you know. And it’s not a bad thing, knowing it’s time. It just shocks you for a bit and then you realize that you get to go out into the world again. You get to meet new people, make a difference in a different way.

I believe moving is a good thing. I know this next move will be good for my family. And I know it’s time to go, because I can feel it.

Missing things is like listening to the sea. It’s there and you know it, and sometimes you can sit there and listen to it, but other times, you have to move beyond the warm beach and dive into the freezing water. There are things that must be done and you can not listen to the water forever. You have to get out there.

I am excited for a new opportunity, I am excited for a new house, a new schedule, a new way of doing things.

But I will not forget the old ones.