Flowers aint so Pretty

 The two hadn’t fixed the house yet. Lillies and tulips were sprouting a ring around the garden in the backyard.  Signing off on their dream house was a huge step in their relationship, and they couldn’t wait.

                Only the wealthy lived in the valley, so Lydia and her husband, Jack, were fortunate to have saved enough money to purchase a home in the area. It was everything she hoped it would be: white picket fence, blue door with a welcome sign. She hadn’t even begun to unpack and she had started to clean.

“Jack, this place is filthy.”

“Honey, I really don’t see anything but dust, that’s normal for a new house.”

“Not OUR house!”

Jack sighs.

                Lydia inspected everything; she was a perfectionist. But the moment the glistening sun through the window caught her eye, she darted toward the backyard. In awe, she opens the sliding door and removes her red-bottom Louboutins. She digs her toes into the fresh soil, a gardener’s delight. Tiptoeing along the cobble path delicately arranged leading to the blue shed. The set-up of the backyard was so flawless; it seemed as if it was made upon their arrival. “Jack, Jack! Come look, it’s like the people who lived here before knew who I was!”                                                                                                                           Jack saunters toward his wife not surprised by her reaction. He never understood her passion for gardening; but her skills at being a stay-at-home wife were okay with him!

Lydia notices the colour pattern of the roses and orchids; clearly whoever lived their prior to them had no sense of theme. This upset her, so she decides to get to work. She heads inside to the kitchen and lifts quite a few cupboard doors before discovering the right one containing gardening tools. She grabs the plyers, rubber gloves and mini shovel. As she leads back to the garden she forgets she is not wearing shoes, and suddenly feels a nail pierce the bottom of her heel. “OH MY GOD!” A ear-splitting shriek comes from Lydia.

 “What?!” Yells her husband in confusion.

“Um someone who is an idiot decided to plant some nails in the garden. Will I need a tetnus shot now!? We don’t even know who has lived here before.”

That was a good point, they did not know who lived there before… this began to raise an uncomfortable awareness.

                Lydia cleans and patches up her wound. Her determination to fix this garden to her liking was not about to seize to a little injury. She slowly hobbles back to the flower bed. Jack watched her from the living room while he unpacked. Sometimes he would worry about her, that her fire and feistiness led her into trouble. But he had decided before they moved in that this was a new start, and he would let her be the way she is going to so he could avoid conflict. He gets up to grab some water, but realizes they haven’t finished unpacking the silverware and all the essentials. Jack walks out to the back and slides the door open to call Lydia and let her know she needs to come back in to help him; to his disbelief he sees his wife laying in the ground with fresh foam around her mouth. He kneels to the ground and cries, he knew she was dead by her cold skin, frozen eyes.

                3:01pm is when the police arrived. A frantic Jack could not make out a story, he had no idea was had happened. One minute his beautiful wife was contently picking flowers, and the next she was dead. “I..I..I have no idea wh-wh-what happened.” Jack was shaking and went into a state of shock, unable to speak. The police announced they needed him to come down to the station to answer questions so they could begin to search for a lead.

Jack remained silent. Words could not come to his brain because of the utter terror he was experiencing. The cops knew this was a normal sign of a witness in a tragedy; they still needed answers. They spent 8 hours hounding the poor widow; but still nothing.

Meanwhile, the cops had acquired a search warrant so they could find clues to help in this obvious murder case. The facts so far were vague; a model-like woman poisoned with cyanide through a cut on her foot while prancing on her glowing green grass. But how? By who? The first obvious suspect, was Jack. The head investigator had a bad feeling that this was a spousal attack, one that required a lot more thinking than doing. He needed to find concrete evidence to place an arrest, and that was solely what he intended to do.

The investigator spread iodine powder across every crevice possible in the mansion. One room in particular deemed suspicious. He came across a black box, opened it, but nothing appeared. After searching for over 14 hours he was about to give up; suddenly he drops to his knees. “YES!” He exclaims, launching his arm under the desk the box had laid. He curls his hand back into his body, covered with dust. Unraveling his palm he stares at the shining glory that lay before his eyes: a clear Ziploc baggie that had black pills in it. Jackpot, he thought.

Arriving at the station, the investigator believes he has caught Jack in the act. Why would someone be so senseless as to leave the evidence in plain sight? Pompous by his discovery the man sends the pills to examination, packs up his folders and leaves for the night.

The morning after the investigator, Slade, gets right to work. The results from the test had come in; Slade opens the folder and reads the sad explanation to his evidence. Ecstasy: party pills. He  tilts his head towards the ceiling, “ugh, you have got to be kidding me.” Although he was alone in the room his face became flushed and he was highly embarrassed. How could he have missed that? He continues to beat himself up verbally while pacing around the room; he thinks there must be something more to this. It could end up being evidence that will be enough to convict.

                Being in a prison cell was Jack’s worse nightmare. But until he breaks down and speaks, he will be stuck here. He sat on the floor with his head between his legs, weeping until his stomach hurt. He could not see out of his eyes they were so swollen. The other cellmate laughed at his embarrassing cry, “You’re serious right now? You are going to pretend you did not kill your smokin’ hot wife. Look at this picture!”, the man shoves the photo Jack brought of him and his wife at their honeymoon as a memoir. “How could you ruin…that!?  Damn, I mean if I had hit that, there would be no turning back. Ha. So why’d you do it?”

“Do what”, Jack snaps.

“You know, slaughter the hottest woman alive.”

“I did not murder my wife.”

“Come on, tell me something interesting. We do have all night, you know”, the man smirks leaving a chill down Jacks spine.

“Well,” Jack takes a deep breath, “I guess there was something that had been worrying me for awhile.”

“Yes…?”

“I mean, I don’t know if it happened because my wife and I were very much in love,” he pauses.

“She cheated eh?”

“How did you—“

“Know you were going to say that? It’s simple. You’re attractive, well put together. You seem to have some money struggles, but your wife…well damn I wouldn’t be surprised if she was escorting some old men on the side. You know what im sayin’?

“DO NOT SPEAK ABOUT MY WIFE LIKE THAT EVER AGAIN!” Jack shrieks and hovers over the cellmate. The man wasn’t scared, probably because he was right.

                Slade came rushing into the police station. “Sam! Sam it all makes sense now. Sit down.” He proceeds to explain his version of what he believes has happened to Mrs Lydia Daultry. “So they searched the house some more, results came in on the soil and it had been prepared for the sole purpose to kill Lydia. Whoever owned this house before had mixed highly concentrated cyanide into the soil. This explains the foaming and convulsing that showed up in her autopsy report.”

“Wow,” says his co-worker, “So who do you think did it? And what explains the party pills, don’t only kids use those nowadays?”

“Well, I’ve been asking around digging any dirt on this model like citizen. She appeared so perfect, but I found lists of accounts where she was less than civil.”

“Keep going?”

“Lydia Daultry was a part of a very elite social club. Ha, who am I joking; let’s be frank. She was an escort, along with a group of successful gorgeous women who mysteriously had gone missing over the years one by one. All by different acts though, making it difficult to link. But now I have found it! She was a highly paid escort for many men, and would attend events at clubs where they would be out all night, most likely high on ecstacy to keep the party going.”

Slade sits up, proud of his accomplishment to create a logical and most likely correct story to explain this murder. He had spoken to many women in the area who evidently all knew Lydia Daultry, all of which knew exactly what she did for a living but somehow her husband was in the dark. The women shared stories and gossip about how Lydia was the highest paid escort of the group. And with her beauty and charm, the other women in the club were very envious. One story in particular stood out to Slade: A week before the couple moved into their new home, a neighbour spotted Lydia go into the mansion with a mysterious dark skinned man. Yelling was heard around 2am as if the two were in a fight.  Lydia was seen rushing out of the house holding her sparkled 6-inch heels, she was on the phone most likely calling a cab. But the man she arrived with…never left the house. The next day, neighbours went to check what had happened, and all they saw was a bag of steel nails on the porch with a note that read “throw out to the garbage, where it belongs.”

Viewfinder 3

Within the triangle. The boundaries seem faded but protrude with energy. Family of ants gather for supper on the green wooden seats. The clouds slowly cover the space where they join. Suddenly a sense of comfort arisies as they all hold hands, a bond not even the darkness can break.

Viewfinder 2

Hands stretching through the bars to the sky, they all want freedom. Trapped under the weight pf sadness blocking the children from reaching their dreams. Once they can break free from the horizontal prison lines, the release of happiness will surely exceed the limits.

View finder 1

Shadowed to the centre; creating a circle of peace and serenity. A corner of pillows thick and plush comforting whatever passes by with a wish to relax. Not only a field of green, it becomes every strand of grass, each stick a bridge to another world

Continued story from term 1

            …Startled she turns around. The sight in front of her was unbearable yet she could not turn away. Shannon felt as if she had been struck with lightening, puncturing her lungs so she could not take a real breath.                                                                                                                                                                    “Daddy…?” She whispers, “Daddy, are you there?” Reaching out her hand she grazes his face. Trembling she pulls in for a hug, then suddenly realizes he has disappeared, like sugar in water. That simple, that fast. Shannon is rattled at this point, to say the least. Her mother was right, and she had been fooled yet again.  Shannon saunters towards the shed still vibrating from the invigorating thought that her father was not dead. She was too embarrassed to tell her mother, so she sat down outside the shed, curled her legs to her chest and wept.

            -A voice speaks to her yet again but without a figure-

            “Hey, Shan. I know youre strong, and your power within will allow this house to bring me back… I promise.”  Shannon smiles because he is giving her hope. She remembers the song her father used to sing her.

Baby girl your sparkle shines, throughout the dark night 
Never fear, Daddy is here, and will be by your side    

Her body tingled from the toes up to her silky blonde hair. The love from her father was so strong she could feel it through his “imaginary” voice. But it seemed the strength of the song prevailed. From then on, Shannon sang the song from her father every day until the calendar his his birthday—May 3^rd. She thought to herself how perfect sense this makes for him to appear on his 40^th birthday. As she is pulling her arm through the sleeve of her jean jacket, a note falls from the pocket. “Freaky…” She gasps. She unfolds the paper and as the words pass her lips another gasp occurs but this time, Shannon faints.  

“Shannon, oh my! What happened?!”

“Shannon, are you okay?”

“Shannon, wake up!”

A million voices cohered into unison blurring Shannon’s brain with fog. Holding her palm to her head she slowly rolls up. She is beyond confused, she had never fainted before. Her Aunt brings over an ice pack, “Shannon, you really need to tell us what happened did someone do this to you?”

“No! No, I was just… in a daze and I guess I haven’t been getting much sleep. Im just tired. That’s all.”

“Are you sure nothing else is going on?”

“YES,” Shannon snaps, “I am fine. I will BE fine. Now would everyone just leave me alone?”

Her family was appalled. They had never seen her behave this way, it was unusual. She realized perhaps her anger may have proved there really was something wrong. She decided to turn the anger into passion and determination, to make her father appear. Shannon sang the song everywhere she went. She wrote it in chalk on the sidewalks, and engraved it into trees. If the song surrounded her, maybe it would create a greater force. Maybe she was crazy, she thought. But what she did know was that she would do anything to bring her father back to her and her family, in the house they built for him.

As the night approached and the summer stars were appearing, she waited patiently. She brought along a picnic blanket, and laid it outside the house. She sat in the spot where her father had made her stand to take a picture on the first day the house was completed. Shannon felt she had done everything thinkable to create a mixture of a possible potion to bring her father back.

The night progressed and her patience was wearing thin.  Where was he? She thought. Did he really want to come back for me? Does he really love me? As she pondered these heart aching questions, she smelled a potent scent of cinnamon buns… her favorite! Her father would always surprise her afterschool with one on special occasions. She just knew he was finally here, she felt her throat close shortening her breath from her overwhelming excitement. A dark figure came around the corner and she stood up straightening her sweater, it was her Daddy’s.

            “Daddy?” The shadow became a full coloured figure, her jaw dropped at the sight she had seen. This was not what she expected, she begins to back up in fear, her father was not here.

            “My dear Shannon… I have come for you…”

Full of cliches

I told her to quit beating around the bush already.                                                                   
I didn't care if she rained on my parade.
She begged to differ. But i insisted even if it was hard to swallow, I needed to know.
She began to speak, and literally had a cow.
I was in over my head, I asked for too much.
Sometimes if you get a heads up, you wont fall.

Something new, something blue

Blue shoes, new shoes

Some sort of essence

Blue shoes, new shoes

Made to dance

Blue shoes, new shoes

You must prance,

Around in your blue shoes, new shoes.  

 

The ravenous ravine rattled

Rushing, raving

The rate is rather rational

Considering the raw reality,

Even the ravens searching for rats

Restrained themselves .

The raucous of rain disturbed the resting rattlesnakes.

Rasping, running.

Creation of the Spork (NEW SHOOTS!!)

Laughter rippled throughout the kitchen as the sink slowly filled up. Frederico was not only a piece of red sculpted plastic, but he was a Fork.  With his prongs he grabbed onto the side of the sink and swayed with the wave. He was not the only one with the address of 950 Wilson St; surrounding him were other forks, knives, spoons and any other utensil you can think of. But he was an outcast, the only one of the group arriving from China made from plastic. They were all imported from India, all grown up and made from metal. He was just, plastic. Amidst the excitement of bath time he was suddenly blown away, he noticed a bright lemon coloured plastic Spoon bobbing in the corner of the sink, she was beautiful. He could not take his eyes off of her. The two floated towards each other during a massive wave, Frederico began to introduce himself but the gushing waterfall from the tap interrupted him. When he finally got his chance to speak, she had suddenly disappeared! Calling for her in confusion he stopped to realize the sink had drained…

            All that consumed Frederico’s mind was the Spoon. He tossed and turned in his shelf trying to sleep but he could not stop thinking about her radiance. She could be his soul mate…but he had to find her. The utensils always hear gruesome horror stories about getting stuck in the drain, and he wondered if she would ever find her way out.

During the day when the house was empty, Frederico had come up with a plan. He tiptoed slowly to the craft drawer. He knew he would find some sort of army gear in there. Frederico grabbed tinfoil and the roll of clear tape. He then wrapped himself in the tinfoil to create an illusion so he would look like a piece of garbage.  Rolling through the cat door in the back, the rush of being free electrified his body and he starts to hop on his way. Unstoppable was what he felt like, hopping and hopping, he is acquiring a good rhythm. He was already exhausted; walking across the lane was a process. But he thought to himself, if he had made it this far, he could not turn back now! He began to feel extraordinarily hot… then Frederico looked up dumbfounded that it was sunny out. He had never left the house before in his life, so he did not know what sun felt like. And perhaps, this outfit wasn’t the appropriate choice for the weather. But before he could whip it off, he felt a hand around his neck and suddenly was freefalling into a dark hole! He heard wheels rolling, “Oh no…” he murmured, this was another warning about the outside world...the trash can. He suggests he should have known since his objective was to blend in as a piece of garbage, but he did not realize it was pick-up day…

Gasping for air as he saw the light above him appear, Frederico climbed out of that bin faster than the speed of light!---Well, so he thought. His prongs finally came to good use as opposed to being plunged into food and put in children’s mouths. A flustered Fork he was in this moment, stumbling to the nearby water. He makes the quick decision to hop into a pristine red toy boat in the river, thinking to himself “I am so smart. I can just float along and chill out, maybe have a margarita…Red on red! No one will ever know!”

Contrary to his belief… Frederico begins to hear loud cheering, “number 6! Go number 6! You got it I’m betting all my money on you!” Oh no, was this a boat race he just got himself in the middle of?! As the boat speeds up…he realizes it was true. “Well”, he murmured, “at least we’re winning, and I’m super comfortable!”                                                                                                     After quite a few minutes, the boat comes to a halt splashing water all over Frederico. “Oh please…how rude and inconsiderate! I was just dozing off.”                                                                                                       He subtly attempts to climb onto the sidewalk, and falls back hitting the water hard. Luckily no one notices Frederico’s clumsiness…so he recovers and begins to walk away. He wonders to himself: if these plans haven’t even worked so far… how am I ever going to find my other half…

Frederick is really upset and continues to walk while pouting. He sees a wooden park bench, wraps himself around the metal leg and slinks himself up. Giving up is a strong topic on the poor Fork’s brain right now. He believes there is no point in living if he does not find his other half; he is incomplete.  Frederico looks to his left, and sees a red Chinese Flying Pigeon; he recognizes those from before he was imported to America! Thrilled he yells, “Wow! I spotted those around the streets of China while I was packaged in the car...but never have I been this close to one!” He had to touch it; better yet, he is going to use it to find that remarkable yellow Spoon! Acknowledging his intelligence he giggles to himself while he creeps up to the bike. It has an old fashioned basket attached to the front of the handlebars, perfect! He thought.

The bike stops with a swerve. After a long journey, over hills, through crowds, under bridges…Frederico climbs out of the basket yet again. This time, he is expecting to be across the country, in a field of colourful flowers and to have his lover run straight into his arms. But his googly-like eyes widen as he realizes: he is still downtown. They went in a circle! Now Frederico is back where he began, worrying where the radiant yellow Spoon had disappeared to. His head hanging low, the passionate cherry-red Fork slowly ventures towards his home. Will he ever be complete? Will he find his other half? Will she be okay? All of these questions ran through Frederick’s mind filling it with concern and angst. He rolled through the cat door and climbed up to his bed. It was late at night so all the utensils were comfortably tucked into bed. As he begins to attempt a silent slip into bed…he knocks one of his fellow knives by accident!      “FREDERICO! Where have you been!? We were all worried sick!” exclaims the knife, in a reply Frederico says “Well..um, I was searching for the Spoon”

“What Spoon? That bright yellow thing?”

“Yes…her”

“Oh, well I guess she IS one of your kinds…”

“Yes anyways, where is she? I have searched ever so dearly all over downtown!” A long pause from the knife unsettles Frederico, “You did WHAT?! We are not supposed to leave the house Fred! What were you thinking? You could’ve been killed out there.”

“I was thinking: I am in love.”

The sun rose simultaneously with the alarm clock. Time for breakfast! The smell of fresh orange juice and the sweet aroma of buttered toast made Frederico smile. He is set in front of Molly the little girl’s plate, she loves him. As she picks him up in her tiny left hand he looks to his right and sees a bright yellow Spoon in her other hand. His heart stops, she was here at last!

“Hi, I’m um, I’m Frederico,” he says flustered.

“Well Hello, my name is Sally, I was made in China. What about you?”

“Me too!” He is ecstatic; he knew it was a perfect fit.

“So, have you ever heard of a Spork?”

“No, I haven’t, what is it?”

Sally has a grin appear on her flawless face, “It is what you and I are meant to be.”

A Superficial Diary

    It wasn’t worth it. The past 7 years to end up like this, unhealthy and alone.

   My first day in the industry was exceptional; I felt like a princess. Showered with gifts and compliments, the opportunity seemed to be once in a lifetime. My parents disapproved, warning me of the dangers I could encounter. But I was ignorant to their opinions; I wanted to feel beautiful for once.

    A typical day at the studio was blissful. Come to the set, get made up for hours with hair and makeup, practice for the theme of the shoot, perform and go home with a smile on my face. The first few years of my career in the industry were extraordinary. My status was rising as I acquired more and more jobs with the top magazines: Marie Claire, Women’s Health, Elle, and even Vogue. I was at the top of my game. Everybody wanted me. It was unbelievably stimulating.

    Then one morning I arrived to shoot for a swimsuit magazine, something I had coveted since I was little. Sitting at the makeup station in my white robe, I greeted everyone with a jubilant smile prepared for the day to begin. I was notified of some extra procedures we would need to do before shooting; I agreed enthusiastically as always, excited for a new experience. They brought me over to the scale, told me to take off my robe and jump on. I’d never weighed myself in front of anyone other than my Mother in my life, but I was ready. The scale read 106. I looked up and smiled saying innocently, “What’s next?”  My manager looked at the photographer, then back at me taking a deep breath in, “To do a swimsuit shoot, you must be less than 100 pounds. Or a BMI fewer than 18, you don’t qualify for either. It’s a regulation. We apologize, but can you fix this issue in 2 weeks? That’s the only time we can book this notorious photographer.” I was stunned. I mean, I knew I had always been skinny, so I had never encountered a problem before. I’d heard rumours about the speculation of the modelling industry, but never believed it to be true. I thought they liked me.

     For months after that incident the scale became my best friend. Every day my routine became harder. Wakeup: have one bottle Kombucha tea, a fermented Chinese tea. Supposedly it has all of these properties for the immune system, metabolism support, and digestion. Followed by one apple, that would suffice. Hit the gym for 2 hours, then the studio. Possibly stopping for a snack of cottage cheese, and drinking more than a litre of water in a day. This worked tremendously for two years. I was asked to participate in Madrid’s Fashion Week: a dream come true.

       I stepped on stage to do a run through of my walk in Madrid; I felt faint. This was normal, apparently. All the models said so. I avoided the mirror on show days so I wouldn’t psyche myself out about how much weight I needed to lose on that day. I had jumped from 98 to 107. With a height of 5”7, an increase of 9 pounds was an embarrassing disaster. As I was walking back to have a team chat before the show began, amidst the hype, I had fainted.

       Waking up in the hospital, I clearly remember my Mother crying. She never wanted this for me. She felt this was her fault, although she warned me, she didn’t monitor like she felt she should have for her baby girl. This broke my heart. My doctor notified my Mother and me of my condition… after running tests and calculating my food intake over the past year; he declared me to have severe Anorexia Nervosa Disorder. It was surreal. He paused and stared at us welling up into tears, and says “Lucy, don’t be ashamed. The reason you have had rapid weight gain over the past month is because… you’re pregnant.”

A trip to Heaven

    The sun has been kind to us. Kissing our cheeks from dawn till dusk. The sky is never grey, blessed with blue. Scenes like a painting, views like a dream. If there were a catastrophic change in the weather, the rain would be gold.

      Set on our blue checkered tablecloth on the patio table (in an adorable manner), is breakfast.  Two plates. One buttered bagel and a glass of a Mimosa; a bowl of Greek yogurt to share. Amazing beginning to a day. The plan for the day was to go for a hike to Zagoria, or maybe Central Peloponnese, so many breathtaking choices. But we were much too comfortable, now sunbathing in netted woven hammocks. Pure bliss.

      “This is naturally peaceful, for once. We work incredibly hard back home and acquire nothing. It is heartbreaking. I never want to return to our hopeless reality,” Lily puts down her drink and picks up a local magazine.                                                                                                                                                                 “I agree,” pouring myself another fresh Mimosa, “going back to my desk job for 8.95$ an hour…is like, definitely not ideal,” I sink back into my hammock letting out a huge breath.                                                                          One of the hotel workers knocked on the side of our door, “hello ladies, my apologies for interrupting, but your 4 o’clock herbal massage has been changed to 1 pm is that alright?” We both smile cheerfully, “Yes!” screeching in unison.

    My life back at home was simple, not good nor bad. But I cannot complain for I am in a trance at this very moment.

      Golden girls we became over the day, beautifully bronzed. Showered with gifts from the local men who fancied us; treating us like royalty. Nothing could upset our fantasy now; we were on top of the world! Well, close enough.

     

      “Hey, Ally… your Mother is on the phone…” Those were the words I did not want to hear right now.                                                                        “Hello? Mom!? What is going on…I told you never to call this number,” I frantically pace back and forth.                                                                         “Alaska Brielle! You listen to me right now young lady!”                            “MOM! I am not a young lady… I’m fifteen! Ugh,” I sighed heavily into a growl. I honestly despise the sound of that woman's voice.                                                  “Listen here miss, we have hired people to search for you ALL over Omaha. This little prank you pulled, is unacceptable! You two better get your butts home this instant…or you will never leave your rooms let alone this country again.” My heart began to pound… All we wanted was a getaway. You know, like in the movies. Steal your parent’s credit cards, book flights to Greece, shop like queens and stay in five star hotels. It totally happens all the time.

     I wish I could be writing this joyful postcard to my parents. But all I ended up with was a severe detention for skipping school and grounding for two months… but I can say one thing, I will never forget my 6 hours in Greece!  

Coincedence

      "Do you realize you just spilled your steaming hot coffee ALL over my NEW versace blouse. Come on, this is silk. Who do you think you are?!" Straightening herself she tries to clean the spill with a paper napkin. 
    "I'm so sorry I wasn't paying attention, I'm just really stressed!" He looks down in embarrassment. The striking woman makes an effort to scowl at him. 
     "Um. Do you think I care?! My name is Elizabeth Marilyn. It's NOT a pleasure to meet you, so please be gone now before you ruin anything else..." 
     "Well wait, what is your last name?" Says the man. 
     Taking a deep breath in she stays composed. "Excuse me, sir. If you are attempting to fancy me, maybe start by buying me a new versace..." 
     He laughs. "Well even though you are undeniably beautiful, I just wanted to repay you. " 
     She ponders the thought of trusting someone again....flushed and flustered she stares blankly. "Scott." 
    "I'm sorry, what? Scott who?" 
    "Scott. That is my last name."


    

to be continued..

Lotto

      “Wait!” Stumbling to grab her book bag, Chelsea speeds into a run. The 107 Cavendish splashes by, literally. Looking down at her soaking bag and overalls, she sighs heavily. 

        This was clearly not Chelsea’s morning. Her boyfriend left her, she broke the plate she was eating breakfast on, lost her keys and was unexpectedly wishing she could just get to work.  Work. Her least favourite place. Filled with unhappy old men and irritating hopeful young women. How she had acquired this job was a mystery, but she stays satisfied because it pays the rent. With Marcus gone, she was lost. AND she was without plates. 

         After a long journey down town, Chelsea arrived. Uncomfortably sitting at her desk in her damp blue blazer really boosted her confidence. She was now feeling like a mutt. Ruffling her papers around she notices a yellow piece of paper, it's her daily ticket! The one thing she needed on this dreadful day was a smile, and she had succeeded. Her only hope was this ticket… 

       She was a 649 addict. 2pm everyday a golden ticket lay in her hand, enthralling.
Never won before, clearly. But she was ever hopeful. A dedicated buyer she believed it was her turn, her one chance to fix her life. What she would do with the money, is unknown at this moment... but she feels it would go to good use, not only to her but to others. A generic plan that she has been praying to get a chance at. 

                                                                              ~

    “And the numbers are!”  Chelsea grips onto her seat, looking down at her last hope.  A yellow piece of paper with 6 numbers.  “1…4…7…5…5…” She was nervous, so close…would today be her day? “2.”

Triumph

The tips of her tiny fingers brush along the pine trees.   

                                                                                                                                                                       Skipping blissfully towards the river bank; enjoying tapping her toes in the puddles as she walks by. 

As the rain pours heavier she halts.          

At the edge of the river, she digs her tiny hand into the purple pocket of her raincoat.   

                                                                                                                                                                          Pulling out a silver locket: filled with tiny notes. 

These were her small dreams to the world; peace on Earth, end to war, and so on. 

Believing to be most powerful, she wishes to send the world her dreams.

Stars didn't suffice in her mind. 

She knew she could achieve greatness, she knew she had a gift. 

She kneels in her floral patterned tights, soaking a hole through.

With a tiny smile she lightly tosses the silver locket into the gloomy grey river.     

The water illuminated in a stretch of gold and pink.   

                                                                                            

Goddess of the sun

Viewfinder #3

Her tense legs climb step by step to the top of the two diving boards. Calming her nerves, she faintly spots her purple backpack in the stands on the right, with her mother smiling. Standing at the edge she feels a gasp of air push her tiny figure. Pressured, she lifts her arms, aligns her feet, and jumps. 

Viewfinder #2

In a last attempt to push the boulder with all of their strength, still no progress is accumulated. Their arms are scratched sore, and fear begins to set in. The car that brought the four passengers to an eerie deserted camp ground, is now crushed steel, no longer able to save them.

Viewfinder #1

The rope ladders sway back and forth, I hang my head over the edge. Cold hands are intolerably trembling as the heavy wicked winds amass, the ladders swinging close enough to nearly touch each other. Underneath rests a layer of fog covering a muddy ground. I kneel down on the ladder, praying I do not fall. 

Where My World Began

     The crisp air was chilling our ears, like the frost was gradually nibbling away at us. It was an earlier autumn than usual. The 5^th of October, my eighth birthday. I never asked for much, but I did have one request for a gift this year. And to my surprise, after unravelling the crinkly wrapping paper and playing with the twinkling bows and ribbons, I stared blankly at the magic in front of me. My eyes lit up as if someone had turned up the brightness. I picked it up; still no words could form from my mouth, but just a simple smile sent to my parents displaying my happiness. I strummed the stiff strings for the first time, my initial thought was, "Is this supposed to happen?”. My parents laughed at my confusion. "No, I’m serious… how do I use this thing!”  They handed me a book of notes, and told me to figure out myself. If I wanted to learn, I would have to do it alone.                                   

      I was jubilant. However, this charm was twice my size… but I decided I would have to deal with it. I immediately began exploring sounds and tunes, I spent many hours devoted. Releasing it brought me to an abode of harmony and realness. Not only writing lyrics to go alongside the music, but the emotions felt when the fogging melody filled my mind were like an aura of my own glowing galaxy reaching a point of complete peace. No other sounds or people around interfered. Then as my life began to change, so did my own creation. I slowly drifted away from the world; the tight rope that I held onto began to break. That piece of me was almost gone, like an empty box waiting to be refilled and sealed for good. Years had gone by and the doors to my world had not been reopened. The once breathtaking experience that was a part of my life, world, and even heart, had now turned into aimless air.

        Then the day arose where I brought myself in front of the doors of my world, kneeling to recover the piece of my heart that was absent for so long.  Slowly unzipping the cloth case, to my embarrassment my hands were almost shaking. The most enchanting moment, was to blow off the dust from my six string acoustic guitar…almost bringing it to life. To my life; again. The spruce soundboard and nylon strings seemed flawless, as if untouched, the sun from my window shined off the wood. My eyes twinkled. This was where my world began. Music is a significant part of my life, and the lyrics bind my story.