hello 2k16

     I did it. I can't believe it, but I submitted my entry for the Five Magic Spindles contest yesterday at 10:26 p.m., with an hour and a half to spare! And then I blasted Taylor Swift and danced around my room in celebration... but that is neither here nor there.      
      This story has been one of the funnest, craziest, most terrifying projects I've ever had the privilege of working on. Since the announcement of this contest in June, it's been sitting on my shoulder like "hey, Julia. You're going out with friends. You should be writing me." and "hey, Julia. I know it's 2:30 a.m., but I'm gonna keep you awake with all of the ideas you have about me." and "hey, Julia. You have three more days until December 31, and you are going to actually die if you don't finish working on me." Well, guess WHAT, you pestering story-voice-guilt-creature? I WROTE YOU AND SUBMITTED YOU AND YOU'RE DONE AND I'M GONNA GO WATCH NETFLIX NOW     
     No, for real - I've been stressed out over this story since forever. It feels amazing to have the weight of it off my chest, and I spent the past three days working harder on it than I've worked on anything all semester in order to have it done in time. Even if it doesn't win the contest, I'm so glad I wrote it - I learned a lot about myself and my writing throughout the process. For example: Julia and deadlines do not do well together. For another, less surprising example: Julia does not like to persist.       I have always known this about me - I have trouble sticking to long-term projects. As someone who claims that she writes novels, I spend a very small amount of time writing novels. I kind of quit digital art a few years ago, even though I enjoyed it, because I didn't think I was good at it. And the truth is, i haven't been writing very much recently because I stopped thinking about it the right way - I got a little overwhelmed by the voices in my head that told me I wasn't a good writer. It was so easy to stop fighting them and to just not write instead. I was afraid of not succeeding, so I didn't try at all.
     But that ends now! It's 2016, and I'm not going to let my fears get in the way of my favorite thing - writing. I'm going to write more this year. I'm also going to draw more, because I've been keeping myself from making art for far too long. So here's to a new year and to not holding myself back.

in which i fangirl over my favorite band and update you on my 5 magic spindles progress

Hello, Blogspot. Long time no see! Does anyone actually read this blog? I think it might just be me. In any case, I'm long overdue for a post. Let me begin with some updates.

1. I'm at university! I'm surprised at myself for not writing about this sooner, but... yeah. It was a big transition at first, being so far away from all my friends, but I love living closer to my extended family. And I'm so much enjoying the city, and all of my classes, and all of the new friends I've made. I really do love it here! If you're a high school senior who's currently trying to get into college, I wish you the best of luck. I never thought I'd end up at the school I'm at. 
     My classes are really interesting!... well, mostly. I'm not a big fan of philosophy, even though the professor is cool, and even though I loved the subject when I took it in my senior year. Ah well. What has really taken me by surprise is how much I'm loving astronomy! I've always been fascinated by space, but being in this class has made me realize how little I truly know about the universe I'm living in. I didn't know that the moon orbits the earth on a tilted plane, which is why there isn't a solar/lunar eclipse every month. I didn't know that the reason you can't see certain constellations year-round is because the whole earth gets in the way. I didn't know that Venus rotates backwards or that Uranus is tipped over on its side and rotates north to south. I love the class so much that I'm considering a minor in Astronomy and Astrophysics in addition to my English major - but that would involve some epic math, which scares me...
     Outside of school, things here are amazing. The night before classes started I actually got to see my favorite band, Twenty One Pilots. They were incredible and sometimes I just can't believe how much their music has brightened my life and given me hope even in the darkest days. My life has been so much impacted by these two dorks from Ohio. Here's a photo or two, because I can't seem to upload videos.

Tyler Joseph!!!

Josh Dun!!!! (it's so blurry i weep but WORTH IT)

2. I got bangs. I love them. I've never felt more like me. Plus, people tell me that I look like Taylor Swift, who is QUEEN OF MY HEART. 

3. I'm working furiously to finish my Five Magic Spindles story contest entry by the deadline! There is so much work to be done on it that it sometimes feels a little overwhelming. But I really believe in this story, and I'm hoping and praying that I'll be able to make it the best it can be before December 31 arrives. I'm about 11,000 words in and that count is rapidly increasing... but the editing I'll have to undertake already feels daunting.
    I realize that I've never written about my story on this blog, so... let me fix that!
    My story is set in Ancient Greece. The protagonist is a dreamer of a princess named Eos who loves swordsmanship, the ocean, her best friend, Signy, and being right. She's coming of age, so her father - the king - throws a massive celebration. What he's trying to ignore is that years ago, the oracle warned him that on the night before her 18th birthday, his daughter would prick her finger on spindle and be swallowed by the sea. Enter a young man named Kelenaeus, a patron of the birthday festival who also happens to love skirmishes of the verbal and physical kind. He and Eos meet; a friendship is born. But forces conspire to keep the two apart... and the day of reckoning draws near.
    I'll write more about the story later, but I'm very much in love with it... even though it is a tiny, fragile bird whose wings are barely big enough to carry it. Hopefully I will be able to coax it into flight within the next two months! If you like, check out the story's Pinterest board. 
    Now, tell me what you're up to, O Humble Readers of My Blog!

here is a blurb about the future

As of today, this blog officially becomes my author blog! A lot of people who like to write have those. I figured I'd just leap into the fray - as if this blog I've been keeping for the past 3 years hasn't been an author blog this whole time. No, I just figured I'd start attempting to make it a little more formal. I'll be posting regularly (GASP) and maybe even promoting it a little on my other forms of social media. Also, it'll be less of a journal and more of a place for me to grow in my fiction writing abilities. I'm also gonna post book reviews and things. So... stay tuned! *finger guns*

the summer of ending things

     Today was my penultimate day at NC State's Teen Writer's Workshop. I have cherished being part of this program for the past two weeks, and I can't believe that it'll be over tomorrow. 
     When I went to choose my two classes in this year's program, I first went with my go-to: fiction. I am a fiction writer first and foremost - being a novelist is my biggest dream. So obviously I was taking fiction. I had a difficult time choosing my next class, though - should I go with poetry, a class I took last year and loved, or dramatic writing, a new realm of creativity that I was not particularly interested in? Figuring that I needed to branch out and try new things, I went with dramatic writing. I wasn't expecting to like it, but I recalled the eccentric instructor of last year's dramatic writing class and the hilarious craft talk he gave about plot structure and decided that I wanted him to teach me. I guess I'm curious about eccentric people. Like calls to like.
     Now here I am with two weeks of writing classes under my belt, amazed at all I've learned and all the friendships I've made. Dramatic writing turned out to be an extremely beneficial choice. Not only was the class fun and hilarious, but it taught me so many new things that I would never have considered hearing about otherwise. I have such an appreciation now for plays and screenplays and the efforts that go into material for movies and TV shows. During the class, I wrote a screenplay about some hot chocolate that falls in love with a marshmallow, and I also wrote an incredibly stupid play about a proper English Regency-era family who get into a bit of a kerfuffle over who put too much sugar in the tea. It's called "Tea Time with the Huntzbergs", and I'm quite proud of it. I'm super excited to see it performed tomorrow in our reading! The friends of mine who practiced it today did a perfect job and it was all silly and absurd and wow, I just love writing camp and how am I ever going to let it go?
      I'm so aware of how a lot of things are ending this summer. My writing camp. My summer camp. My high school career. I'm so excited to start at university, but all I can think about is this song from the Paper Towns movie and these lines that say "i'll meet you in the evening, i'll meet you in the evening, we'll do it all again", and the lyrics land on this one chord that just makes me want to cry a lot. I won't get to do it all again. This is my last year of writing camp. I wish I could freeze time and live in these summer days forever. 

i am capable of bringing dead things (this blog) back to life

Hello, anyone and everyone who might still be reading this blog! Today is your lucky day, because today is the day when dragonsdancinginstarlitskies.blogspot.com gets a resurrection (and possibly a shorter url)! 

Back when I was in high school (I can say that now!), this blog was a really important thing to me. Forcing myself to regularly post my writing on here really helped me develop as a writer. I want to continue posting stories, but I'd also like to start straying away from some of the more journal-ish posts. I'm not sure how I feel about having my random personal thoughts out on the internet. So from now on, I'll be revamping this blog to focus less on my personal life and incoherent ramblings and more on making myself into a better author. I'll also be posting book reviews, because I've been looking for somewhere to do that, and this blog is as good as any. 

So that's it, I guess. Get ready for things around here to get a lot more timely.

so this blog still exists

Did I last post on here in November? That's a shame, because senior year is so memorable and I'm letting all the important things be forgotten because I'm too busy to write them down.

It has been eighty years since I last sat down to write. I miss it. Maybe I'll continue the story about Sparrow and Cas, but if I really had my way, I'd go back and edit the first few parts - change the plot around a little, and make Sparrow less of a victim and Cas more shy.

You know how the text on this blog used to always be purple? I can't seem to do that anymore. I also have problems using the font I want to, since it's not technically available on Blogger.

I'm just going to list some facts that are relevant to life right now. I mean, so much has changed since November.

- I'm officially attending the University of Toronto next year, which I'm really excited about!
- I've been thinking of starting a youtube channel about book reviews. Maybe I'll figure it out when summer comes.
- Remember my zombie novel? I'm trying to finish the first draft (which I'm still working on) by January. Heh, we'll see how that goes.
- I'm seriously not okay with this font. It feels so unfamiliar.
- I've begun writing book reviews and posting them on my tumblr because I want to reach that level where publishers just send me free books to review. That would be super cool.
- There's this band called Twenty One Pilots and I love them so much that it's almost a problem.
- I kinda wanna start collecting vinyls.

So that's life, I guess. I'll keep writing soon - I promise.

anatomy

Hands:

I am a creator.

My hands are blades that carve words into wood,

brushes that splatter color on snow.

I am a healer.

My hands are solid, and they are warm, and they are the light

To take hold of when only darkness fills your grasp,

The glue that wants to hold together the cracks in your skin.

But in the seat next to you

They become alien things and I can't remember

If I've ever had hands before,

Or if they go in my pockets or in my lap or...

Eyes:

Windows to the soul?

Most seem to want their soul

To look shuttered, cold. Masked. Hidden.

No trespassing, stay out.

My mother always taught me

To look people in the eye, to find

What dwells behind. But you.

Your eyes are so sharp that my gaze glances off.

Too bright to be looked at directly.

Too real to fall on a girl who is immaterial.

Too deep to fall into with any hope of survival.

What if I want to drown?

Heart:

Excuse you. How dare you!

That thing is labeled.

I wrote my name across it in glitter glue.

And that scar down the side?

That happened in high school.

What makes you think you can just,

I don't know, swipe it?

Without my permission? And no,

The overzealous thrumming it performs whenever you're around

Does not count as permission.

Even if I were to give it to you,

Why should I subject you

To my awful gift-wrapping skills?

moving on (november 1)

you don't even seem sorry as

my eyes dissolve into two brown napkins,

the paper rough against my swollen eyelids.

you watch me, eyes earnest and

whoever said brown eyes aren't gorgeous was a liar,

because somehow you have never looked so handsome.

your hands twist, untwist,

searching for something to hold onto.

i keep mine clasped between my knees.

they can no longer be that something.
i tell you everything,

my speech interrupted

by sporadic pauses for tears and extended, sobby silences.

i will never forget how much it hurts to tell you

that i will never forget how much you mean(t) to me.

your arms around me one last time,

and i guess I'll be seeing you around,

and your face is blurry through a veil of tears, and

i turn away.

they start spilling down my cheeks like

the rain against the cafe windows.

there's this little old lady and she says,

“oh, you're leaving? can i have your table?”

and I brush past her in disgust,

which is not deeply felt because the

sadness is taking up all the space.

i sob all the way back to the car.

i wonder if you watched me leave,

your face in the window,

or if you stared down at your hands,

marveling at what they had taken apart.

you told me you would have done

anything to change things,

anything to make it right.

i would consider it if i learned

that you did not give the little old lady our table.

aardvark poetry

I've been at summer writing camp these past two weeks. One day, my poetry class was trying to write a rondelet, which is a french form poem. One guy came up with our first line: the aardvarks say. And here is the poem we wrote.

The aardvarks say

Your love is smallpox for the tribes.

The aardvarks say

Send the spaniards out to the quay

Carrying whips and sneering knives

To kill the men and steal their brides 

The aardvarks say.

From here, we went a little crazy with the aardvark themes, and now there's this running aardvark joke in my class. I am really going to miss this camp.

Here's a poem another group in my class wrote. It had to be written to a certain meter pattern:

The rain, it falls upon aardvarks

so deep with dark of night. I watch

them run in fear through the trees. Aardvarks

in the streets, in the schools, in the city, in the wild. Everywhere.

two deaths and a reunion

   (tfois fanfic)
   
    It's gotten to the point where he can't remember much. But he can see Hazel Grace. He doesn't know if she's a dream. A memory. A hallucination. 
   There she is, slouched in her chair in the literal heart of Jesus - fiddling with the cannula that's keeping her alive. She looks radiant, despite everything. Despite the drugs and the exhaustion and the lack of air. Her eyes are bright as she catches his glance, and her lips curve up into the tiniest smile. She is so beautiful.
   There she is as she sits next to him on that lonely swingset, her face solemn and lit by the light of the cloudy sky. Staring down at her lap, she's telling him to stay away, but even as the words leave her mouth, he can feel the magnetic pull between their hearts, and he knows that promising to stay away is a promise he can't make. 
   There she is when he's dying at a gas station in the middle of nowhere, only a husk of the former great Augustus. Now he is only Gus. The scared little boy with his shirt drenched in vomit. But Hazel is there, and she is only Hazel. She has never been anyone else but herself - unashamedly so. She is the Hazel who wears t-shirts with obscure Magritte references and gets sad about pathetic swing sets and is willing to drive out to recite poetry to him when he's losing himself. He may have tried to be many things, but she has only ever been Hazel, and she is more than enough.
   When death finally comes to Augustus, there is one thought - one thought directed at whatever capital S Something is waiting for him. 
   Give her more time. 

   She can't breathe.
   She hasn't been able to for a while now, but this is different. This isn't like before.
   She has always been drowning. Always struggling for air past the liquid that insisted on filling and refilling her tired lungs. She has always felt the weight of an ocean inside her, trying to drag her down into its unknown depths. 
    But there is no water now.
    Now, there is fire. 
    It licks at her chest and the smoke rises to clog her throat, to turn her screams of pain into muffled, bloody coughs. It burns unreachable places of her. For the first time in her life, she wishes that there was water enough in her lungs to make it stop. 
    And then it does.

    There is light.
    Then there is air in her lungs. Sweet, pure, cold, and real - painless. She gulps it in like it's water and she's been dying in a desert. That's what it feels like - like water soothing her cracked, dry, burned-out lungs. She finds herself on her feet and the air keeps filling her and she feels no exhaustion. It's like flying or falling, or like swallowing pure goodness.
    She takes a few steps forward and then breaks into a run. She hasn't run since she was thirteen - since before the diagnosis. And now she's racing like her feet have wings. When she stops, she doesn't have to bend over to catch her breath or to still her pounding heart. She doesn't collapse. She just stands there surrounded by whiteness as tears fall down her cheeks and as her lungs don't fail her. She feels reborn. The new and improved - 
    "Took you long enough, Hazel Grace."
    Now her breath catches. She looks up and swipes away her tears, but they only continue to gush as she considers the figure before her. Someone radiant and tall, wearing a crooked smile and tousled hair.
    "Augustus," she gasps, and then his arms are around her. She leans her face against his powerful chest and cries. He's laughing, but when she looks up at his face - God, she's missed his face so much - she can see that he's crying, too. She raises a hand and places is it on his cheek. His skin is soft and his tears wet her fingers and she can't get past the fact that he's here, right in front of her. "You're real?"
    "I'm real," he tells her. 
    "This is heaven?"
    He grins. "If ever there were a literal heart of Jesus, this would be it."
    She laughs. And then she puts a hand on her chest, so overwhelmed with joy that she almost feels lightheaded. "Gus, I can breathe. I can breathe. Look at this!" She steps away from him to spin in circles, her laughter filling the air. Just as she's about to fall over, Gus catches her, and as she's laughing in his arms he pulls up his pantleg. "Check this out, Hazel Grace." His leg is whole.
    She can't stop staring at his face. The Augustus she missed, the Augustus who left her behind - she can't believe he's here, real and warm against her skin, and without thinking she stretches up on her toes and kisses him. She doesn't have to stop and gasp for breath.
    When she breaks away, he's smiling, and he relinquishes his hold on her to drape an arm across her shoulder. "There are some people you need to meet, Hazel Grace." He looks forward, into the indeterminable whiteness, but then his eyes meet hers, and he smiles. "Okay?"
     Smiling back, she takes his hand and holds it to her chest, gazing at his fingers. Nails, skin, muscle and bone, all real and soft and holding her. She says, "Okay."
     And they step forward together into an eternity that, this time, is real.

Improbable Goings-On in the Burgess Stop n' Save, part 8

                                                                       - Sparrow -
     Cas had to sit across from me, as if he wanted me to stare at him all evening. (Okay, so maybe I was the one who secured this seat first. But still.) He even took my prized mug. What a jerk. What a perfect jerk.
     My mom's asking all the usual questions. "So you work at the grocery store?"
     Cas nods and works on swallowing a mouthful of stuffing. "Yeah, I started when I was fifteen."
     "And you like it?"
     "Yes. A lot, actually." He takes a sip of milk and his eyes stray to mine. When he puts his cup down, he has a milk mustache. I shake my head with a smile.
     "Do you live nearby?"
     He tilts his head to either side, as if considering this. "Relatively. Over in Burgess."
     "I bet your family's nice."
     He nods. "Yeah, they are. There's kind of a lot of us, though." He takes a bite of potato before he continues. "I'm the oldest. Then there's my sister - Ari. She's thirteen. And my brother Ben is eight. Plus my mom and dad. So family vacations are a blast." 
      I shove my stuffing around my plate with my fork, then stab a small chunk of bread. 
      "Do you know where your going to school?" Wow, didn't see that one coming. That's like the staple adult question nowadays.
      "Not yet, but my top school is U of T." I perk up at that. The University of Toronto is one of my top schools as well. I want to major in Music Performance - Violin, specifically. Maybe I'll become a music teacher someday. But I also want to write. And I want to paint. I really have no idea where I'm going in life.
      Neither does Cas, apparently - he tells my mom he doesn't know what major he wants to pursue. "Confused young adults unite," I pipe in, and he grins at me, saying, "Let's start a club. We'll meet in the grocery store and strum banjos and pursue world peace." I tell him I'll contribute my violin, and then we're both laughing and before I know it we're clearing away the plates.
      I'm sticking some in the dishwasher when my mom's like, "Cas, don't you have to be getting home?" I do not like that idea. He should stay for a while. Possibly forever.
      Cas glances at his watch. I hadn't noticed before that he was wearing one. "Uh, I should probably call my mom and let her know where I am," he laughs. "I kind of forgot to do that. Excuse me." He disappears into the living room. I turn back to my dishes, knowing what's coming.
      Mom pops up at my side and intones immediately, "Sparrow, he's gorgeous."
      Some kind of strangled, embarrassed noise comes from me as I hide my face. "Stop it!" I squeal. I can feel my face flaming. "I know!"
      Her signature laugh, loud and smooth, fills the kitchen, and she bumps me lightly aside. "Go show him around. I'll take over the dishes." I look at her, and she gives me a glance and a wink before she turns to the dishes that need to be done.
      When I get to the living room, the floor transitioning from hardwood to carpet, Cas is just getting off the phone. "Hey," he smiles, slipping it into his pocket.
      "What's happening?" I ask.
      "She just wants me stay safe. Basically. I'm sure I'll be fine to drive home in the dark." We both glance at the window - light's fading from the sky, but the snow is ever bright. 
      I look back at him. He looks back at me.
      "Wanna... see my room?" I ask suddenly. 
      His gaze moves to the stairs, then back at me. And he smiles. "Sure."

                                                                 - Cas - 
      The first thing I say is "The walls are purple. I'm not surprised."
      She laughs and socks me lightly in the shoulder. I stands in the doorway,  looking around reverently, even somewhat afraid I'll break something if I take a step forward. 
      Sparrow plunks down on the bed, which is near a window that looks out onto the driveway. It's framed by white Christmas lights - in fact, they line the whole room, situated where the ceiling meets the wall. Why do cute girls always have Christmas lights in their rooms? There are posters of things. Harry Potter, Divergent, Homestuck - whatever that is. And surrounding the larger posters are all these smaller pictures - drawings, photographs, and quotes from things. It's like a massive collage taking up one whole side of her room. 
      She ends up next to me somehow. "So what's the verdict?" she asks, glancing at me with a smile. The fairy lights reflect in her eyes, and they seem darker than ever. 
      "It's very... you," I reply. I approach the collage and peer at a photo of Sparrow with a group of friends. They're all grinning - looking spiffy in business attire and wearing colored lanyards around their necks.
      "Those are my Model UN friends," Sparrow explains. "I was Denmark."
      My finger touches the photo-Sparrow. "Your lanyard is purple."
      "I'm sorry! I really freaking like purple!"
      The next thing in the collage is a quote - "Let's focus on what's important in life: friends, waffles, work." Can't deny that. Another quote: "Stay gold, Ponyboy." There are many quotes, all situated on paper of different colors and shapes and sizes. My eyes land on a few photos in a cluster - a girl in a field wearing a flower crown, lit from behind by a setting sun; two guys laughing together in black and white; a dog whose face takes up the whole frame. "Did you take these?" I ask.
      She nods. "I like photography." She says it in a sort of exhalation, like it's no big deal. "Sometimes I take photoshoots with my friends."
       "Is there any art form you're not into?" I laugh. I have never been much of an artist myself.
       "Dancing. I can't dance." 
       "You're in luck." In a swift motion, I pull her close to me - my hand is on her waist, and the other clasps her left hand. "I took ballroom dance when I was fourteen."
       Resting her other hand lightly on my shoulder, she laughs. "What fourteen-year-old boy takes ballroom dance -"
       But I'm already whisking her around the room, which is surprisingly spacious anyways. Her hand tightens around mine, and she laughs again as she stumbles on my feet. She won't meet my eyes - her cheeks are pink. "Just follow my feet," I instruct her gently. We twirl around in the same circuit a few times before she starts to get it, and then we move easily around the room.
       "You're pretty good at this," I tell her, slowing us down a little. Finally, her eyes meet mine, and she gives a small shrug. "I love listening to waltz music."
       I have a brief vision of her dancing around her room on her own, and it makes me smile. She smiles back, then looks down, her lashes veiling her eyes. For a moment, I let go of her hand, using it to move a strand of blonde hair off her cheek. She freezes.
       My phone rings, sharp and loud. I dig into my pocket, and Sparrow takes a step back from me, her hands leaving mine. I can already feel the absence of her warmth. My mom's picture is flashing on the screen as the phone vibrates wildly in my hand. I've always thought the whole vibrating-noise-flashing thing that cell phones do is slightly overwhelming. Exasperated, I answer the call.
      "Hello?"
      "Caspian, are you still at dinner?"
      My eyes stray to Sparrow. She's admiring her collage silently, hands clasped. "Yes?"
      "Can you come home? I know I told you you could stay a while, but your dad isn't home yet and Ben is screaming that he wants you to build Legos with him." She pauses, and in the background I hear my little brother yelling something unintelligible. "Can you make it?"
       "Of course," I reply. "Where's Ari?"
       "Ben doesn't want to play with her."
       I look around Sparrow's room, feeling disappointed. "Okay. Be right there."
       My mom says goodbye, and I hang up the phone. Sometimes I am the only one who can appease my little brother. Sparrow's looking at me expectantly, her elaborate collage forgotten.
       "My mom wants me to come home," I say in disappointment.
       Her face falls a bit. "Oh." She hesitates, her eyes urgent. "Okay. Well... thanks so much for coming." She steps forward and clasps her arms around my torso, her face hidden in my chest. I drape my arms around her shoulders. She's so tiny. 
       Eventually she takes a step back and we walk down the stairs. Sparrow's mom comes around to the bottom and smiles at us as we descend. "You leaving, Cas?"
       "Yeah," I say. Once I'm at the bottom I give her a light hug. "Thanks for dinner. And for having me." 
       "Come back whenever you want," she tells me. "Our doors are open." I laugh a little and look over at Sparrow, who's holding up my coat with a grin. 
       I take it from her and slide my arms in, tucking it in around me, preparing to leave the cozy little foyer. "Okay," I begin, unsure of what else to say. "Goodbye. Thank you."
       And now I'm on the other side of the door and walking down the snowy steps, and Sparrow's waving at me, and I smile and wave back. Then it's closed and I'm alone, getting in my car and heading down the snowy roads toward home.

- Sparrow - 

I forgot to thank him for teaching me how to dance.

Improbable Goings-On in the Burgess Stop n' Save, part 7

                                                                               - Cas - 

    The warmth in the house is flawless. I breathe a sigh of relief and unzip my coat, nearly bumping into a side table next to the door. Directly ahead is a white staircase, and next to it is a small hallway lined with photos, leading to a lighted room - the kitchen. Sparrow's mom has already disappeared. I look over at Sparrow, who's hanging her coat on a rack in the nearby living room. She smiles at me and motions to take my coat, and I pass it to her. 
     I feel like if I had seen this house in photos, or if I had just been here one day, I would have known that it was the house Sparrow lived in. A number of soft-looking scarves are hanging on the coat rack, all of them some shade of purple. The living room has dark curtains that are thrown open to allow the whitish light of winter. In the center of the room is a black podium stacked with thin books, and on the ground, a white violin rests in its case. Have you ever noticed how certain people have these distinct smells? This house is filled with a Sparrow-smell. 
      Sparrow gazes around the room and then tells me, "When we moved here, I took charge of decorating this room." I can tell. She motions across the way, to a charmingly cluttered room painted light blue. "...and my mom took that one." There looks to be a sewing machine in there, and scattered samples of fabric piled up in order by color. The desk holds a typewriter and chaotically piled papers. Sparrow's mom seems to like piles. 
       Her voice floats in from the kitchen. "Dinner's ready!"
       Sparrow heads toward the hallway. "Wait," I stop her. "I didn't realize I was staying for dinner."
       Her eyebrows rise up with the corners of her mouth. "Aren't you hungry?"
       "Yeah, but... I don't want to intrude."
       She gives a short burst of laughter. "Oh my God, you dork!" She touches her hand to her forehead for a moment, grinning, then looks up at me. "Stop being so darn polite. You're not intruding at all. We're glad to have you. Really." 
        The kitchen is lit in warm yellow light, and Sparrow's mom is setting a large bowl out on the table. "Is there anything I can help with?" I ask, eliciting an eye-roll and a smile from Sparrow as she's pulling dishes out of the cabinet. 
         Her mom turns to me, sliding a few placemats into my arms. "Just put these down, dear," she says, already bustling away to stir a steaming pot on the stove. I unfold the placemats and flatten them out on the round wooden table. Behind it, a bay window with the blinds pulled looks out on the snow-laden backyard. There are four seats at the table, but only three place settings. I lay them out so that the empty seat doesn't feel so conspicuous, wondering who's missing.
         "So how do you kids know each other?" Sparrow's mom asks. I head over to take three plates out of her hands before going back to the table, hiding my smile. "I ran into Cas at the grocery store," Sparrow says. I can't see her expression because she's turned away to grab silverware out of a drawer. "And we just... became friends." She shuts the drawer and turns back around. Her eyes are on the silverware in her fists, but then they stray up to meet mine. We both smile.
        "What exactly resulted in Cas driving you home today?" Sparrow's mom has pale eyes and long, dark hair - the inverse of Sparrow. Her skin is even a tad darker. When she raises her face to look at me, I can see the similarities - they both have straight noses and nearly identical profiles. But Sparrow's face is petite where her mom's is long.
        "I walked to the Stop n' Save from school," Sparrow explains. Her mom seems to begin to protest, but Sparrow cuts her off. "I couldn't get a hold of you, and no one at school was willing to drive me anywhere, so I went out and just started walking and then I saw the Stop n' Save so I stopped there to get warm and Cas was there and he took care of me. And drove me here. So I'm okay and we're all good." She exhales all of this, and I feel like she has done this sort of let-me-explain-before-you-murder-me type of convincing before. She stops and looks at her mom tentatively, unaware of what her reaction will be. But her mom has turned to me fixes me with a gaze that I can't read.
      She comes over and puts both hands on my shoulders. My eyes flick to Sparrow's as she looks on in amusement, but then back to her mom's. I find honesty there. And she tells me, "Thank you for driving my daughter home." Then she hugs me. I wrap my arms around her as softly as I can, looking at Sparrow again. She's just smiling. "Uh, you're welcome," I say, then add, "It was... no trouble at all." Sparrow's mom takes a step back, but before she turns away she tells me, "You're a good kid, Cas."
       Sparrow gives me a shrug, and I go to help her remove cups from the cabinet. Since I'm taller, I pull them out and pass them to her, and she picks them up, two in each hand. "Aww, look at this!" she's saying as I close the cabinet. Having put down the others, she's gazing at a mug that's sloppily painted pink and blue and white, with raised flowers all over it and a chipped handle. Its polished glaze shines in the light. Sparrow holds it out to me, her expression radiant. "I made this when I was, like, ten. Isn't it lovely?"
       I take it from her and examine it for a moment. "Yes, lovely is definitely a word I would use to describe this mug." I laugh at the mock angry expression that comes over her face before I go to set out the rest of the mugs. Sparrow's mom brushes past me to put a pot down in the center of the table, and Sparrow drops the silverware on either side of each plate. 
       "Is that everything?" Sparrow asks, sitting down across from me and smoothing her skirt. Her mom pulls off her oven mitts and dusts off her hands. "I believe so," she singsongs, taking the chair next to me. 

if these wings could fly

  Junior year sucks. High school is stupid. Whose idea was it to throw four hundred hormone-flooded teenagers into a building to do stuff they hate for eight hours a day with little to no breaks? No wonder everyone hates getting an education. I wish we could have specialized classes that focus on what we actually want to do with our lives. But no. Colleges want us to be good at grammar and math and science and art (but don't go into art as a career, because then you'll never make any money and you'll be a total loser!) and they also want us to save children from burning houses, and they want us to start SFPOBC (The Societies for the Prevention of Burning Children), and they want us to have begun a Bible studies at our churches for children who have escaped from fires.
   It's the beginning of May. I still have to make a post about Prom, which was last week. I'm also going to start the next installment of the Burgess story. ^u^ But that's not quite happening yet. I want school to end, but I don't want AP English to be over. I could spend the rest of my life in that class and be perfectly happy. My teacher's awesome, and he talks to us like we actually have brains, and I've learned more about writing in his class than I have in all of high school so far. I'm actually taking the exam today. Woot. I guess.
     So that's all really. Oh, and here's a super awesome song.

contemplation

   I've been thinking about Celeste lately. You remember. Her name isn't really Celeste, but that's what I call her - the girl who ruined me and strengthened me with the same blow. My former best friend. I've just been reminiscing about how perfect those days of my life were - when I'd spend Saturday after Saturday at her house, flying down the roads on our scooters, eating all the snacks in her pantry, and exploring the creek in her backyard.
    I remember the color of her walls - lavender - and how she never liked electric lights, but she loved candles. She loved smelly things. I remember the closet full of stuffed animals and books. I remember the oak desk with the rolling top. I remember how quiet her house was, smack dab in the middle of a forest, like a little paradise. I remember her backyard. A flat plane of long grass with the beckoning forest at its edge. I remember kicking our soccer ball into the woods and chasing after it. I remember walking down to the creek and leaping across islands of sand and stealing smooth rocks from the water. I remember how we hid a paper - a treaty of sorts - promising that we would never stop being friends, complete with our scrawled sixth-grader signatures and our endlessly naïve sixth-grader promises, under a tree root and returned to it week after week until it crumpled into mud. I remember swinging side by side on that creaky old playset and trying to climb up the slide (it was impossible). I remember the maroon color of the kitchen walls and the cold granite countertops and the bowl of snacks that was always ready for us on the table. I remember pizzas ordered and laughs shared over servings of stretchy cheese and dough. I remember trying to play the piano in her living room even though my fingers fumbled on the keys. I remember her fluffy purple bedspread and her beach photos and how much we loved American Girl Dolls. 
    She loved making videos. One Christmas she got a laptop and a fancy editing software and we made all these silly videos together - about dolls and the creek and friendship. Stretched out on her bed, we'd manipulate music and footage to create DVDs that represented our childhood.
    Today I was sitting in the car and this song came on - Good Life by OneRepublic. Everyone has a song, and that was ours. As I sat in the air-conditioned capsule under a perfect blue sky, I could feel myself remembering scraped knees and shorts and sunny days spent in the glow of a friendship that I never thought would end. 
    Later today I popped a DVD performance of last year's marching band show into the TV only to find that it was not a DVD performance of last year's marching band show. It was one of me and Celeste's videos. I started crying in two seconds flat, and as the music started playing I hit the stop button and wondered why she kept popping up in my day. Why would I need to care about her? She has plenty of friends and her boyfriend, whom she'll probably marry the day she graduates high school. I will not be in her wedding, like we had planned it when we were ten, and she will not be in mine.
    I'm grateful to be out of Celeste's life, and I let it all go a long time ago. But I will never get over how she left without a single word. How I held her up and mended her wings and loved her just to let her leave me without a glance back. I was there, always, and she never was. 
   The death of our friendship made me stronger than pretty much anything else could have. I'm glad it happened. Having Celeste out of my life is a blessing. But I think sometimes it's good to remember the things that made you who you are, and to remember that God is always good. He took a pushover of a girl and helped her become someone who knows her value and knows that true friendships don't mean missed calls and nights spent crying. And he reminded her that His plans for her life are so much better than her own.
    As OneRepublic says, it's a good life.

Improbable Goings-On in the Burgess Stop n' Save, part 6

                                                                         - Sparrow -

   (I was going to write a thing where Cas and Sparrow had adventures in the empty grocery store, but I stink at writing dialogue so we'll come back to it later. Now he's driving her home.)

  Cas' car is a squat blue Toyota, smack in the middle of a very empty parking lot. Inside, it is freezing, which is normal. It also smells like spearmint, which is not as normal. I hop into the shotgun seat and shiver, folding my arms to keep in the warmth while the air vaporizes my breath.
     The driver side door opens, admitting cold air and heavy snowflakes and Cas before he plops down and slams it shut. He rips off his gloves and rubs his cold hands together. "Great weather we're having." Finally, he sticks the key in the ignition. Warm air blasts from the vents as the car comes to life. I sigh happily and unwrap my scarf to let the warmth touch my neck.
     Cas turns on the window wipers, and the piled snow collapses off the windshield. "So where are we going?" he asks. The snow lights up the blue of his eyes as he looks at me seriously. 
     I squint through the windshield and see just whiteness. "Seaport Lane," I say. "Do you know how to get there?"
     "Yeah. That's near Benson, right?" While he's talking, he starts backing out of the parking spot, snow crunching under the tires.
     "Yes." Benson is the town one over from Burgess. I live on its outskirts, like I kind of live in Benson and also kind of live in Burgess. I try dialing my mom again, and the call doesn't go through, so I give up and slip my phone into my coat pocket. At least now we know she's okay. 
     Cas is saying something about his cousins who live in Benson, and I watch his face reservedly as we pull out of the parking lot. Everything about him is like light. His silly smile, his bright eyes, his one wildly gesturing hand as the other grips the steering wheel. And the way he keeps glancing at me, as if to make sure I'm still there. It makes me feel too important. Like, I'm just Sparrow. I sit around eating soup and writing bad poetry and scraping at my violin. Stop blessing me with the presence of your gorgeous face and gorgeous self. But he does anyway, like he doesn't care that we live on totally separate levels of existence - he on one of grocery store greatness and me on one of social discomfort and soup obsession.
    The road ahead is long and white, and fat snowflakes batter the windshield. I'm perfectly happy with sitting here and being near Cas. 
    "What's your favorite color?" he asks suddenly.
    I consider it for a moment. "Purple," I reply. "All shades."
    He smiles and uses one hand to swing the tail of my scarf into my face. "I figured," he laughs.
    "What's yours?"
    He's quiet for a bit as he stares out at the driving snow. "Green." His teeth flash in a smile. "Like moss and grass. Springtime."
    I wave my hand over the expanse of white ahead. "So this is definitely your kind of weather."
    He smiles and is silent for a bit. Then he asks, "How's high school treating you?"
    I consider it, then shrug distantly. "I hate it."
    He laughs. "Well then. How come?"
    "Because of social hierarchies." I wrinkle my nose. "Because of math class and college applications and crowded hallways. I hate being enclosed."
    "Your name suits you," he smiles.
    "And people are just rude!" I continue explosively. "I get so tired of people." A thought occurs to me, and I fall silent, smiling to myself. I could never say it out loud. And yet... maybe sometimes I need to say what I think instead of holding it in.
    My voice is quieter than before - more tentative when I say, "But I never get tired of you."
    Cas smiles at that, looking down for a moment. Is he blushing? I can't tell. His eyes are back on the road.
    After a half hour of slow snow driving, we pull into my driveway. I try to peer past the windows of our squat blue house, but I can't see any movement inside. "I wonder of she's even home," I muse to Cas as I start getting out of the car. He hasn't moved - he's just looking vacantly out the windshield.
    I pause, and my brow lowers. "You're coming, right?"
    He looks at me in surprise. "...Should I?"
    "Of course! Come on." I slam the car door shut, and snow falls off the edges. Cas gets out and joins me on the other side of the car, his hands shoved into his pockets. He gives me a small smile, and we start up the path toward my front steps.
    I've never invited a boy to my house before. My mom'll probably freak out. Not in a bad way, but in a "Sparrow-you-actually-have-friends" kind of way. Probably in a "what-a-cute-guy--you-should-date-him" kind of way. Blood rushes to my cheeks at that thought. Me and Cas, dating? Good Lord.
    The stairs are coated in snow. I step up them carefully and ring the doorbell, then knock with a curled fist, very conscious of Cas behind me. 
    The door opens to my mother throwing her arms around me. "You made it, dear!" 
    I laugh. "You didn't answer your phone, mom."
    "It hasn't been working right." Her voice is muffled, coming from somewhere behind my ear. She unfolds herself from me and focuses on Cas immediately. "Who's this?" I can hear the approval in her voice. Oh, god.
    "This is Cas. He brought me home." At the sound of his name, Cas smiles and goes in for a handshake, but my mom hugs him instead. He grins at me from my mother's grip, and I try not to laugh. Then she lets him go. "Nice to meet you," Cas tells her with a tentative smile. 
    "It's a pleasure, darling. Come on in." She turns to get past me and inside - and as she does, she waggles her eyebrows at me. I frown in mock anger, my eyes going to Cas. He's watching the exchange with interest. 
    I grin and turn to follow her in.