A Memorable Passage

This passage is at the very end of Janet Lee Carey’s Dragons Keep. Spoiler alert. MAJOR SPOILER ALERT.

                “A peace gift from the dragons,” called Father Hugh.

                “Ah, see how it clings to her hand!” called Marn’s son, Gerbert. “As if she were born so!”

                I dropped my other glove and held my hands high, feeling the wind rush through my fingers.

                Ah, the freedom of this nakedness. That which I’d hidden so long from all, transformed by a kiss and held in reverence. Merlin had said the twenty-first queen would “end war with the wave of her hand.” But I’d not known till now the mage spoke of the war between humans and dragons.

                The talon had, all in a moment, become a sign of peace between us.

There is a few more paragraphs after that, but I would like to skip ahead to the last three lines of the book:

                 I raised my kissed claw higher.

    My curse – a blessing.

    From that night and on.

This whole story revolves around Princess Rosalind and her curse, which is seemingly getting in the way of Merlin’s prophecy about her. The whole book she struggles with this “mark”, which is a dragon scaly claw for a third finger. She wears golden gloves to cover her claw. She is insecure because of it, and even tries to cut it off at one point.  The whole book is a very intricate journey of this struggle and what it brings to her over a course of three years.

This passage matters to me because of how emotionally moving it is. Rosalind’s mark is finally accepted. She fulfills her destiny. Finally, for once in her life full of hardships – a life full of disappointment, death of loved ones, despair and utter betrayal – finally, everything is okay. She is on the throne where she belongs, as Queen of Wilde Island. Not only is she queen but the love of her life is sitting at her side as king, and she has brought peace among humans and dragons. It’s ironic, the way she fulfilled Merlin’s prophecy and brought peace among the land.

Rosalind is a character I felt I could relate to at a very young age. I remember feeling like I was trekking through her heart-wrenching journey with her, every step of the way. I guess this passage is so important to me because it made me feel relief. After everything Rosalind had been through, it was just so relieving to read those last three lines. I understand what it’s like to feel the need to be accepted by the people around you, and in this passage that is what Rosalind receives.

Honestly it’s just an amazing ending to an amazing book. 

Writers as Readers

A lot of genres interest me when it comes to reading. One of my favorite books is a fantasy novel about a princess and some dragons. I am also a big fan of the Twilight saga. I guess fantasy would be one of my favorite genres then. I also like horror and mystery. Poetry is fun to read too, but it is something I have to be in the mood for. When I was young I used to read A LOT of non-fiction books from the library. I liked to learn about dinosaurs and space.  I’ve read a lot of comic books throughout my life. I’m not sure what that genre would be. Action I guess?

My first reading teacher was my mother.  When I was young she was a stay-at-home mom; something I am very grateful for. She taught me my ABC’s (with the assist of Elmo and more of his friends from Sesame Street). She taught me how to read, and she read to me up until I was about 11 or 12. She had me reading before I even stepped foot into preschool. Because of this, my scores on reading tests have always been very high. Honestly if it wasn’t for her, I may not to love write as much as I do. I feel like writing and reading go hand-in-hand.  

One of my best memories related to reading is probably the time I met Janet Lee Carey. She wrote my favorite book Dragon’s Keep. I met her at some-sort of Authors Day at MSU when I was in 4^th grade. She did a presentation about the books she had written. My class sat in the first row. Most of her books are fantasy based. They all sounded pretty interesting, but the most interesting was Dragon’s Keep. After we listened to her, we heard a few more authors speak. Honestly, I can't remember who the rest of them were. At the end of the day we went into this big room that had stands that had the authors’ names on the front of a table with a display of their books. Most of the stands were empty, but Janet Lee Carey was sitting at hers. I was shy at 11. I sauntered over and fidgeted as she greeted me. I picked up a paperback version of Dragon’s Keep, only to find that I had just enough money to buy it. Janet offered to sign it for me and asked me what my name was. I remember having to spell it out for her, and smiling shyly and thanking her before getting in the long line to pay. It’s weird looking back on that day. I had no idea I was buying a book that I would read six times over, and probably more to come. I had no idea that I was speaking to my favorite author.

Dragon’s Keep is the first book that made me excited to turn the page, and the next, and the next after that. The last time I read it was my sophomore year, and I found myself having that experience with it again; it had been a while sense I had read it. Funnily enough, All My Friends are Dead was a page-turner as well.

I know for a fact that I will write a book someday. Whether it be a short novel, or a children’s book with my own illustrations, or even a graphic novel, I will write a book.  Hopefully more than one. I have a lot of ideas, a whole sketch journal full. It is just hard to find the time to put them into action sometimes. I’m not sure what the “About Author” column will say, but I know that the first book I write will be dedicated to my mom. Like I said before, she is the reason I got a head start in reading, and probably the main reason I have always found so much enjoyment in writing. 

Dream Threads

I convince myself that if I dream long and hard enough it will come true.

Maybe because I believe if I dream long and hard enough I will never wake up.

Dreams are enticing in the most delightful way. They twirl and twist reality until it is a mangled up, yet beautiful mess.  They contain intricate loose-ends that can seamlessly sew themselves back together in the brink of an instant.  Who wouldn’t be addicted to such an appealing state of existence, where there is no right or wrong, and where up is down and down is up and so forth? And even so, who could blame one for being hooked on such a thing?  

Life is difficult, and there is absolutely no question there. To live is to be weighed down with mind boggling tongue twisters of an elders wisdom; things that can never be understood. To breathe is to wish upon a star, only to be crushed in the straining process and to find yourself pondering aimlessly why you ever started to breathe in the first place.

When I check my pulse, I can feel my heart alive underneath my fingertips.

I just want to ask it, “Why?”

Why does it keep pulsing, never missing a beat?

A dream is refreshing. There are no mind boggling tongue twisters. There is no disappointment, heavy enough to crush the breath out of ones lungs.

In a dream, there just is. While in life, there just was.  

As I lay down at night, I feel every burden from the day gently lift from my shoulders, as I drift off into my Wonderland. While there are no smiling cats or mad hatters, there is a rabbit hole, and as I fall, I think nothing will catch me. 

If I Were in Charge of The World

If I were in charge of the world

I’d cancel politics,

bedtime,

the Kardashians, and also

raisins.

If I were in charge of the world

there’d be enchanted forests,

real-life cartoon characters, and

a lack of dehydrated grapes.

If I were in charge of the world

you wouldn’t have stress.

You wouldn’t have burnt orange.

You wouldn’t have scabs.

Or “Eat your raisins!”

You wouldn’t even have raisins.

If I were in charge of the world

a chewy chocolate chip granola bar

without raisins would be a vegetable.

All raisins would burn.

And a person who sometimes “forgot” to eat raisins,

and sometimes “forgot” not to hate on them,

would still be allowed to be

in charge of the world.

Caged Bird Inspired

Why does the caged bird sing?

Why is a raven like a writing desk?

Two questions lay before me on a dreary fork in the road.

One path a whimsical riddle.

The other something more.

In my foggy haze I stand and contemplate.

For a moment I am unsure.

Then…it dawns on me.

What if the caged bird….

…is the raven? 

Writer's Dreams

When it comes to writing, I am not very comfortable using other languages. I have only taken a couple of Spanish classes and I passed those by the skin of my teeth. When I write I try to stay away from foreign concepts. I feel that in order to write about something, you need to have moderate knowledge of it. Before I would even consider including a foreign language in one of my stories or poems, I would study the language first.

Speaking of language, talking is something that I do way too much of. I know that I would learn a lot if I would just shut my trap and listen to people. In fact, I decided that I would start a mute study soon. I am going to come to school and not talk unless it is utterly necessary. I think that will really help me open my mind to more things.

My memories stay fuzzy but I do have total recall of a lot of my dreams. I kept a dream journal for about a year. Honestly I wish I had kept that habit. I lucid dream as well, but not as much as I used to; it takes a lot of practice. When it comes to memories though, I think my clearest memories are the funny and tragic ones. My Dad is a really funny person, so I have a lot of funny memories from every part of my life. I have a few tragic ones as well, and those are pretty clear. I think those stay with me because laughter and tears are both caused by very strong emotions and I am a very emotional person.

Having a history in lucid dreaming in all of that I have had my fair share of nightmares. Personally I do not think that talking about bad dreams gives them “too much power”. I think talking out a nightmare can be good for you. By drawing attention to it in real life, you are reminding yourself that it wasn’t real. Every time I had a nightmare as a kid I would tell my mom about it, and I honestly felt like that helped me cope with it. I will say that I haven’t had a nightmare in a long time. Maybe because I have seven dream catchers over my bed?

I would say that writing is hard work. Sometimes the words don’t stop flowing and it seems easy. Writing is something I’ve done my whole life along with drawing. I have struggled with “Writer’s Block” off and on throughout my life. I am able to write short stories but not novels. Someone once told me that writer’s block isn’t real; that it’s all in your head. I told them, “If it’s in my head then it’s real enough to me.”

Color Story

            White is a very annoying color, and it always has been. Even before I arrived here, I hated it. Take snow for example. It is just too damn bright; blindingly so. Winter in general just screams static noise. Staring at blank walls and florescent lights all day and every day kills me from the inside out. So does the disgusting glow of these scrubs they make me wear. All so bright…it’s sickening.

            My psychiatrist reminds me of an old greyhound. His hair (or what is left of it) shines with a dull gleam under the fluorescents. He is withered, with a monotone voice, and he has wrinkles on his cheeks that sag to the concrete floor. His daily dress is monochrome – from his collared shirt to his worn down loafers – he looks like he stepped out of a nursing home for the rich. When he speaks, his drone words slip into one ear and spill out the other. This asshole is supposed to help me “work through” my emotions. Might help if he had some himself.

            Red is a pungent color; angry. Yet splattered over the blank walls like little rose petals, it is comforting. Little lady bugs dance on my scrubs. The wang of sirens accompanied by a flashing ruby glow breaks the deafening silence. Soon there are multiple stings. Tubes run this way and that – little swirly slides of cherry Kool-Aid. My chapped lips curl into a tight smile. Suddenly winter becomes more bearable.

            Black is poison – like the widow spider that bit my dreary older sister when I was young. My memories are hazy, if not blocked out. Maybe the spider bit me too? I feel his thorn-like legs pricking my arms. I feel his venom run through me, darkening the brightness around me. The winter is fading. There is a presence of something heavy, like an anvil on my chest, my body. My eyes become hooded with sleep as the anger starts to fall away from me.

            What’s white, red and black all over?

            A grey failure.  

Authors Note: I struggled with the prompt and rules for this story. While it developed into something I did not expect I hope I haven't offended anyone.