nightlife - a poem

nightlife

the night is alive

with the light

people dance in

smoky jazz clubs

to the music of the kings-

girls with glitter on

their eylids and

dresses that glimmer

with the blue lights

boys with slicked-back hair

and nervous smiles

dipping, spinning

turning, gliding

with the urgent jumble

of the nightlife sounds

                             Sincerely,

                                                               A Writer

Clair of The Big Apple - A Short Story

Clair of The Big Apple

“Goodbye, goodbye!” Clair caught up her skirts and leaned dangerously far out the train window, clasping her hat to her head as she strained for a last glimpse of her family. She waved and waved until the station and three shabbily-dressed figures were far behind. At last, Clair flopped back into her seat, brushing damp brown curls from her face and knocking her pretty white sunhat from her head in the process.

                “Pardon me, but is this your hat?” Clair turned and stared at the handsome young man standing in the doorway of the compartment, swaying gently with the movement of the train. In one gloved hand he held her hat.

                Clair blushed. “Oh, yes! It must have fallen off.” She gratefully accepted her sunhat and plopped it unceremoniously onto her head, slightly askew. The young man smiled politely and turned to go.

                “Oh please, won’t you stay?” Clair asked impetuously, gazing at him with wide-set hazel eyes. “I haven’t anyone to talk to!”

                The young man turned, looking both surprised and pleased. “If you wouldn’t mind…”

                “Of course I don’t! I asked you, didn’t I?”

                The handsome young man grinned in a very ungentlemanly way. He looked oddly young when he smiled, and Clair realized he couldn’t be more than a year or two older than her. He settled himself into the faded red velvet chair across from Clair’s. “My name is Thomas.”

                “Clair. It’s a dreadfully prim, plain name, isn’t it? Are you going all the way to New York, or planning to stop along the way?”

                “I think it’s a fine name.” Thomas smiled warmly. “I live in New York, as a matter of fact. I’ve been away on business in Chicago. What about you?”

                “Oh, I don’t live in New York, but that’s where I’m going!” said Clair cheerfully. “I’m hoping to get a job as a reporter for the Times. If not, I suppose I’ll have to go back home…” she sighed.

                “But where are you from?”

                “Oh! Just a small town in Mississippi. Very boring. What’s it like, living in such a big city?”

                The two companions chatted gaily for the remainder of the uneventful trip, and soon became fast friends.

                Clair stepped down from the train with her one small bag and looked around the noisy, crowded platform in bewilderment. She had nowhere to go, no one to take her in.

                “Clair?”

                She turned and smiled with relief at her friend. “Oh, Thomas, thank goodness! Do you think you could-“

                “No problem,” Thomas reassured her. “I know just the place for you to stay!”

“Thank you ever so much, Thomas. I don’t know what I would have done without you,” said a grateful Clair, happily accepting the keys to her new room. “I’m glad I could help,” smiled Thomas.

                “Didn’t you say your apartment isn’t far from here? Maybe we’ll see each other around.”

                “That’s right, but I’ve got a better idea. How about I stop by in a month or two, just to see how you’re getting on?” asked Thomas.

                “That would be wonderful. Are you sure you can’t stay for a cup of coffee?”

                “Sorry, I can’t. I’m going to be-“ Thomas stopped and glanced at his watch. “Oh hell, I am late for work! Goodbye!”

                “Goodbye! Take care of yourself, Thomas.”

                “The same to you!”

A Month Later

Clair stared down at the hateful slip of typewritten paper with stinging eyes. The lines of indifferent black print blurred together as hot tears began to gather in her eyes.

                A knock at the door startled her out of her misery. Clair leapt to her feet, swiped at her eyes, and began to pick her way through the untidy room to answer it.

                “Oh. Hello, Thomas.”

                Hello, Clair!” said the young man cheerfully. “I came, just like I promised. How have you- Hey, are you alright?”

                Clair broke down and began to sob. “No, I’m not! The Times just sent me a rejection slip and I don’t have any money left and there isn’t anything to eat in this whole god-forsaken apartment and my best dress has a tear in it and I can’t bear the thought of going home with nothing to show for all the time I’ve wasted here and going back to being little ole me, stuck in a tiny, boring village I don’t care two-pence for and I don’t have the money for a train ticket anyway and the weather is miserable and everything is just horrible!”

                “Clair…” said Thomas helplessly, grey eyes troubled. “I’m so sorry.”

                He hugged her tightly, feeling Clair’s thin shoulders shaking. “Don’t worry. Everything is going to be just fine, sweetheart. I promise.”

                                                          Sincerely,

                                                                                           A Writer

A Book of Fairy Tales - A Short Story

A Book of Fairy Tales

Hannah lifted her skirts high to avoid the puddles. “Not that it matters,” she muttered to herself, pushing wet strands of ginger hair from her face. “I look like a drowned cat.” With a sigh, Hannah let her skirts drop into the mud and walked even more slowly.

The streets were silent and empty, and it was nice to be alone, for once. Hannah took a long deep breath, filling her lungs with the cool, clean air. She thought ahead to her inevitable arrival at the shabby brick row house that was home. She tried to imagine it without the two sets of noisy, trouble-making twins who were always underfoot. Hannah had tripped over them more than once. Of course, it was always her fault.

With an impatient gesture Hannah yanked her dripping, muddy skirts to her knees and began to run.  It was getting later and colder, and she would catch cold if she wasn’t careful.

Hannah lingered in front of the shabby building for a few minutes. She took several deep breaths and looked longingly down the wet empty streets. With a quick, backwards glance Hannah pushed open the familiar wood front door with its hideous green paint peeling off in long strips and stepped into the hot, crowded room.

As usual, just being smothered into that tiny room with nowhere to go made Hannah want to scream. She swallowed a sob and headed for her tiny cot, squashed in the corner by the only window. Suddenly, she stopped dead. “What did you do?!” Hannah screamed in horror. Her mattress was propped up against the dirty plaster wall, and the remains of what had once been Hannah’s most prized possession as scattered across the floor and grimy stone hearth. Caroline, one of the oldest of Hannah’s younger siblings, started guiltily and attempted to hide the wreckage behind her back.

“Caroline, you wicked, wicked girl! How could you?” Hannah cried. She grabbed her sister by the shoulders and shook her until the girl’s teeth rattled. “I’m not sorry,” Caroline said defiantly. “You think you’re better than us, just ‘cause you went to school. How come you got a book and I don’t? Anyway, it’s not good for nothing. You can’t eat it or sell it, and the pictures are dumb. Who wants to read about a stupid ole princess?”

Hannah slapped her.

She fell to her knees as she began to gather up the ruined pages with trembling hands. The beautiful illustrations had been scribbled over with thick black marker, and some of the pages had been torn out and stepped on with muddy bare feet. Most had been burned. Hannah’s heart throbbed as she stared into the flames and saw one of her favorite pictures -a dragon breathing fire at a knight in silver armor- only half-burned. Hannah plunged her hand into the fire, ignoring the pain, and grabbed the picture. It crumbled into ashes in her burned fingers.

She stared blankly at the few remaining pages still in the book. One was torn right down the middle, and another was crumpled and broken like a fragile white bird.

Hannah looked up at her sister and hated her as she had never hated anyone before. “I will never forgive you!” she screamed, and the room was suddenly quiet, quieter than it had ever been since the first set of twins had been born. “This was all I had of Daddy and you’ve ruined it! You’re a horrible, selfish, ignorant, stubborn brat, Caroline, and I pity you, but I will never, ever forgive or forget what you’ve done!”

Caroline glowered at her with stormy eyes. “I isn’t igna- igno- whatever it is you said, and I isn’t selfish either! School is for people who can’t work. Anyway, I’m not sorry,” she added triumphantly.

“Hannah, stop yelling at that poor child and make yourself useful!” called her mother from the kitchen. The noise level in the room rose suddenly and life went back to normal. Caroline raced away to fight over a broken, headless doll with two other twins.

“But mother, she ruined papa’s book! Look, the pages are-“

“Yes, I know what she did. It kept her quiet, so I let her. For pity’s sake, child, don’t cry! You ain’t a child no more, and we can’t afford such luxuries since your father died. I don’t know why you kept the useless thing so long, anyway. Now get an apron on and come help me with supper. I got some carrots that need slicing!”

“Mother, you don’t understand-“ Hannah started.

“I understand just fine, young lady. It was silly of you to keep something like that in the house if it was so important to you! Now get in here and help me with this chicken. I declare, tisn’t enough meat in this bird to feed a family of two, let alone six!

“Hannah, where are you going? Hannah?”

                                                                    Sincerely,

                                                                              A Writer

Rainy Dawn in the City - my first poem!

Rainy Dawn in the City

Faint slivers of cold, grey light streak across the black sky.
The city is as still as an empty stage in a darkened theater.
Lines of silvery rain rush past my window to the street below,

Where puddles glimmer like mirrors, reflecting signs and

      windows and doors.
Pigeons calmly stroll the sidewalks, alone at a private

      picnic,
pecking at yesterday's crumbs.
It is cold and grey and silent in this moment before the world

      wakes.
And I, four floors above the puddled streets, pull my soft,
friendly quilt a little closer
And wait for the first spoken word of the day.

                                                                             Sincerely,

                                                                                       A Writer

A monologue I wrote about my imaginary friend

This is a monologue I wrote, also when I was younger, just after I read Anne of Green Gables. I loved the book so much, I wrote a monologue (although I didn't know what it was at the time!) in the style of the way Anne talks to Marilla, only about my imaginary friend, whom I suspect is still lurking around in the corners of my mind.

There is a beautiful, perfectly elegant brick house on Goldmine Hill (it's named after the old gold mine they made nearby, of course,) less than a mile away from mine. Even though I know I am much too old, sometimes I pretend a girl my age lives there. She is pretty (although she couldn't care less) and vivacious, bold and careless, too curious for her own good, and dreadfully sarcastic if provoked. She can give the most distractingly witty little speeches that are simply enchanting.

Although I know I shouldn't judge people by their looks, it's so much easier to love something beautiful than ugly, don't you think? I try not to mind how dreadfully plain I am in comparison, but it is hard, and Adele is very pretty. She is tall and slim, with long, smooth hair like black silk and dark eyes that flash and sparkle and dance when she is excited.

She can sulk spectacularly, and throw the most brilliant tantrums. She sulks quite often, mostly because she goes to a perfectly dreadful all-girls school (one of the best in the country, of course, because she is very wealthy), and hates it because the other girls are snobby and mean and tease Adele because she doesn't care about fashion or boys like they do. She's gotten kicked out of three different schools in the past year alone. Three! Can you imagine?

I was a little frightened of her at first, because I'd heard such awful stories, but she was very nice and scrupulously polite. She said she'd never met anyone with such a mouth on them, but she rather liked it on me, because at least I had something interesting to say, and that was more than what could be said of some people!

We had a perfectly delicious afternoon. We sat in the shade under some enormous oak trees, and the cook brought us cookies on delicate china plates rimmed in gold: snickerdoodle, sugar, ginger snap, chocolate chip, and even a funny kind I'd never had, from Germany Adele said. A secret family recipe of the cook's. We pretended to be elegant young ladies, taking tiny bites of cookie, until Adele bet me 10 cents I couldn't fit more cookies into my mouth at one time than her. Of course I didn't bet, because gambling is wrong, but Adele did it anyway. It was so funny I almost died laughing.

Oh, I just know Adele and I are going to be the best of friends! Adele says she will take me to the circus! Imagine that, a real circus, with lions and acrobats and everything! And to concerts in the summer, and ice skating in the winter, and to Adele's summer cottage by the sea, and we'll celebrate each other's birthdays together, since they're only a few years apart, and oh, what fun we'll have! 

Did you like it? I thought it was pretty good!

                                          Sincerely,

                                                                          A Writer

An old essay I found in my closet...

           I found an old essay I wrote when I was younger today! It's about what kind of house I want to own when I grow up. I was looking for a silk Japanese fan I'd lost a few days ago, but I found it instead! I edited it a little, so tell me what you think...

         ...The house will be snow and creamy lemon,* with more windows than you can count, with hidden corridors and lost rooms you never find twice. With walls covered in murals and balconies tucked into sweet, unsuspecting corners, perfect for seeing without being seen. With staircases that spiral up and up until your head is spinning and you simply cannot climb anymore. With a room higher than the rest, so high that looking down makes you dizzy and looking up brings you closer to the stars than the gods. With an ocean at your fingertips and stories piled high...

        So, what do you think? I thought it turned out pretty well.

                                         Sincerely,

                                                                                   A Writer
*Mmm...aren't those words delicious together? They make me think of these super delish chocolate and strawberry pastries my mom made me for mah birthday... 



Mary's Song - My First Short Story!

  Mary’s Song

                On a quiet street in New York City a young woman was locking the door to her house, a rather shabby brick building in a row of identical, rather shabby brick buildings. She tucked the key into her pocket and lifted her skirts to clear the steps. Smiling, she lifted her face to the sun-soaked May morning.

                “Oranges for sale, good, fresh oranges, out of season and only 10 cents a dozen!”

                A street hawker peddling a cart piled high with the round, bright fruit waved cheerfully at her from the other side of the narrow street.

                “G’ morning Ms. Mary! Headin’ to the church?”

                “Good morning, Tom!” called the woman. “Yes, but I can’t stop to talk now; I’m late for choir practice!”

                She hurried along the sidewalk, pulling off her coat and folding it over one arm. She hadn’t expected it to be so warm. Everything Ms. Mary wore was neat but faded. The tired brown coat, the carefully patched Sunday best skirt and blouse, and especially the scuffed, sensible work shoes.

                It was hard sometimes -working as a music teacher in a nearby elementary school didn’t pay much- but Ms. Mary always managed to find a few dollars for the collection tin at church. She carried this money in a black pocketbook so old the leather was worn smooth in the places where she held it. The pocketbook was more often empty than not, but today it contained three crumpled dollar bills. Two were for the collection tin, one for groceries.

                Suddenly the air was filled with song, one she’d never heard. Standing on the corner was a small boy, no more than eight or nine. He stood with his hands clasped behind his back as he sang, eyes closed, head bent.

Ms. Mary approached the boy until she stood in front of him. He opened his eyes and smiled at her, revealing a chipped font tooth. She smiled back and listened to the last stanza of the song:

O Mary! we crown thee with blossoms today,
Queen of the Angels, Queen of the May,
O Mary! we crown thee with blossoms today,
Queen of the Angels, Queen of the May.

“What was the name of that song?” Ms. Mary couldn’t help but ask. She loved to sing, that was why she’d become a music teacher in the first place.

                “It’s ‘Bring Flowers of the Rarest’, ma’am.”

                “It’s lovely. Could you sing ‘Amazing Grace’?” she asked. The boy nodded.

                “Of course, ma’am.” His voice was as sweet and clear and innocent as when he’d sang, with no sign of the typical street kid slang. Now he sang:

Amazing Grace, how sweet the sound,

That saved a wretch like me…

I once was lost but now am found,

was blind, but now, I see.

                A small group of people had gathered around the boy’s corner. A shabby, no-nonsense-looking woman sniffed and wiped at her eyes.

“He sings just like ‘n angel, that he does, ” she said to no one in particular and dropped two small coins into the hat at the boy’s feet. He smiled shyly at her,  pushing untidy chestnut curls out of his eyes.

“Thank you, ma’am. Do you have any requests?”

She chucked and shook her head. “Real polite, too! If all the boys on the streets were sweet as you… It’s a shame, such a shame…” She didn’t finish her sentence,  just shook her head and hurried away. Ms. Mary knew what the woman had been going to say. It’s a shame that you have no future. Without money, talent was useless.

By now the little knot of people was loosening, some humming the melody under their breath as they drifted away. Ms. Mary turned to go, then stopped. She reached into her pocketbook. Her fingers touched the corner of the three folded bills. She couldn’t afford to give the boy any money. But. He stood in front of her, not expecting anything, his brilliant blue eyes meeting hers steadily.

Ms. Mary tucked a strand of hair back into its bun. She couldn’t help but notice how frighteningly thin and white the boy was, with clumsily patched, ragged garments. All the same, he was very beautiful, with a wide, sweet smile..

Before she had time to think Ms. Mary dropped a dollar into the almost empty hat. The boy’s eyes widened in surprise. “Thank you, ma’am! That’s very generous!”

“You’ve earned it, you sing very well! Please, call me Ms. Mary. Ma’am makes me sound so old!”

The boy laughed. “I think you’re the prettiest lady I ever saw, Ms. Mary,” he said, in that sweetly-serious, confiding way little boys have. Ms. Mary felt her heart melting. “Well, thank you, although I don’t quite agree!”

Suddenly,  Ms. Mary remembered. The choir! “Oh, I almost forgot. I’m late for choir practice. If you’ll excuse me…” The boy smiled wistfully. “That sounds wonderful. Goodbye.”

Ms Mary turned once again to leave, but stopped. “Would…would you consider joining?”

“Me?” The boy stared at her. “Oh I couldn’t…but it would be so nice…” He clasped his hands and gazed up at Ms. Mary with eyes bright as evening stars. “Oh, yes please…if they would have me!”

“I’m sure they would,” comforted Ms. Mary. “But if we don’t run, we’ll never make it!” She grabbed the boy’s hand as he scooped up his hat and raced the remaining three blocks to the church.

                                            Sincerely,
                                                                                           A Writer

Books you absolutely must read!

Welcome, dear children, to the first of my soon-to-be-famous lists! First up is...*drum roll* my favorite books, along with a harshly critical 3-8 sentence review. Enjoy! WARNING: Since I am mostly a fantasy fan, I might be a little biased. Just sayin'!

10. A Wrinkle In Time Madeline L'Engle: An excellent book, but a little too sci-fi for my tastes. And the rest of the series...no way. It had a few memorable passages, but altogether...it barely makes it onto this list. Rating: *** 

9.  Anne of Green Gables L.M. Montgomery: A beautifully written and altogether timeless piece; one of my all-time favorites. However, much of the book was rather flowery and descriptive, witch might turn off less dedicated readers. Once you get past that minor flaw, an excellent read. Rating: ****

8. The Red Pyramid Rick Riordan: Although Riordan is usually a brilliant writer, I felt that something was lacking in this particular book. I don't know what is is, but I found myself preferring his earlier Percy Jackson And The Olympians series over this one. It's realistic characters and exciting storyline makes it stand out as a series of it is own, without using his previous works as a crutch, but as a whole, I think Riordan's new series will not become as popular as his previous one has. Rating: ****

7. The Red Blazer Girls Michael D. Beil: I must say, it's almost a little creepy how well a male writer knows how girls think. Some girls, at least. This book is  perfect mixture of puzzle-solving, mystery, and math, as well as a little romance. Yes, I know, math isn't the most exciting thing you've ever known. In fact, it's hideously boring! However, I was surprised at how much I enjoyed the book. I also recommend getting the book on tape. The English version, at least, has an excellent reader that brings the story to life. Rating: ****

6. Harriet The Spy Louise Fitzhugh: An amusing heroine and her interesting way of getting information make this book one of my favorites at #6! Be warned, this book is rather old, and some of the ideas-such as a typewriter-are out-of-date, but I found that this did not lessen my enjoyment of the book. Louise Fitzhugh is an accomlished writer, and I recommend the other books in this series as well, along with Harriet The Spy, Double Agent- an add-on to the original series by writer Maya Gold. Rating: ****1/2

5. The Once And Future King T.H. White: This book has lost none of it's charm with age, and has managed, as some books do, to maintain it's originality and spirit over the years. With a wizard prortrayed as an untidy, half-mad old man and a hero named Wart who is destined to become king, you know that this book is unlike any other. Of course, it's not perfect. At a whooping 639 pages (at least, that's how many my version has) this book's complex language and may characters can be as difficult to understand as the most uninteligable foreign language class. Fortunalty, I found it worth the trouble. Rating:****

4. The Story Girl L.M. Montgomery: I loved this book because I love stories. If you don't, I don't know why you've bothered to read this far. Although the narrarator is well-spoken, it is the firey story girl who will captivate you. Her enchanting voice and fascinating stories will speak to you even when only read on the printed page. An exellent book, although not without it's faults, of course. Rating: ****1/2

3. Steinbeck's Ghost Lewis Buzbee: A fabulous book, and unusual too. There is no one great enemy, no terrible danger or heroic quest. Just one boy, and the power of the written word come to life. In preparation, consider reading a few of Steinbeck's works, including The Red Pony and The Pastures of Heaven, a personal favorite. Also, A Wrinkle In Time would be useful. Rating: *****

2. The Princess Bride (abridged) William Goldman: This book deserves it's spot as #2 on this list. The dialog and narration are intelligent and funny, although the book isn't afraid to fool you into losing all hope. Rating: *****

1. Inkheart Cornelia Funke: A beautiful book, and the one that helped me decide that what I anted more than anything was to be a writer. If you don't like fantasy, you're out of luck, but if you do...this bookhas everything. Faries and brownies, giants and elves, nymphs and even a little magic. The next book in this trilogy, Inkspell, is even better, and Inkdeath, my ultimate favorite book ever. To not love this book, your heart must indeed be as black as ink. Rating: *****1/2

See? Told you I was a little biased. But don't take my word for it. Read them yourselves!

                                              Sincerely,

                                                                                        A Writer

Welcome to my blog!

Greetings, people of Earth! My name is Brianna, but you can call me whatever you like, I don't mind. Trust me, I've heard them all. If you want to know all the little details about me you can check my profile.

I created this blog (this is my first, mind you, so go easy on me!) so I could post my stories, poems, opinions, and ideas about the world somewhere people could read them. A girl can only have so many trusted family members* friends, after all!

Anyway, I know that you and I will become great friends! At least, I hope so... Unless, of course, you're one of those Internet stalkers/weirdos adults are always warning you about. If so: LEAVE ME ALONE, FREAKS!!! Thank you.

                                                                  Sincerely,

                                                                                           A Writer

*Never mind that. I don't really trust my family. They're a bit...eccentric, to put it kindly. Some people aren't so nice. But I digress.