The Landlady Prologue

So I was in L.A. class a couple of weeks ago, and my teacher handed out copies of the short story The Landlady by Roald Dahl. In one word: creepy. Yes, I can honestly say that the story gave my legitimate nightmares. It's cynical, mysterious, and just scary enough to really make you wonder about the story behind the story. (NOTE: Before reading this blog post, I'd strongly recommend reading The Landlady. Just Google it and a ton of links will come up with the full story.) So, as an L.A. assignment (and my own curiosity) I decided to write a quick prologue for The Landlady. It's just something I whipped up, but tell me what you think by leaving a comment or selecting a "reaction" at the bottom of the post! I've also included at the top of this post a picture of the British television series that featured The Landlady, as well as other (equally sinister) short stories by Roald Dahl.

The Landlady: A Prologue

It was late at night, and Mrs. Alice Murden was waiting. Absentmindedly, she stroked the stuffed dachshund beside her and glanced at the grandfather clock ticking away next to the mantle. He would be here soon, that much she was sure of.

Rising to her feet, she groaned softly—her bones weren’t what they had been ten years ago. Mrs. Murden made her way across the living room to the old-fashioned kitchen, stifling more weary exclamations of pain as she went. Wrinkled and ancient on the outside she may be, but her mind was sharper and more cunning than ever. Wandering through the kitchen, she stopped at a photograph hanging above a charming breakfast nook.

The man pictured there was the epitome of command. Harshness and discipline echoed in the lines around his sharp cheekbones and angular jaw. However, there was a mysterious look of gauntness in his dark, sunken eyes, causing a viewer to believe that there was a deeper cause to his apparent misery. Mrs. Murden caressed his frame-encased face, and shook her head sadly.

“My dear Mr. Murden,” she murmured to her late husband, “it’s been ten years since that fateful day.” She laughed suddenly, cruel and cold, “And to think that you never saw it coming!” The elderly women then turned to the heavy oak cabinet hanging besides the painting. Taking a silver key from where it dangled on a chain around her withered neck, she unlocked the heavy padlock keeping the cabinet shut. It swung open with the rusty creak of hinges that haven't seen oil in many years.

“Which one to choose today?” Mrs. Murden muttered to herself as she surveyed the various assortments of containers and bottles in front of her. “What shall I use this time, my sweet?” She addressed the Mr. Murden glaring at her from the wall. “Arsenic? Lead? Or how about Mercury?” The lady now smiled eerily, like a cat waiting to strike her defenseless prey. “I know how well you like that one. You of all people should be aware of how effective it is.” Reaching into the cabinet, she withdrew a small, amber colored bottle. “I think cyanine would be best, don't you?" Still smiling that same sinister smile, she turned her back on the man in the picture. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have a guest to wait for.”

Carnival: A Poem

Hey y'all. What can I do but apologize for my neglecting of my blog? This summer has been so busy, and although I've been reading and writing tons, I just kept on forgetting to post everything. So to make it up to you guys, here is a poem I wrote after a very emotional event (Remember--I can only write poetry when I'm super emotional!). So don't judge, just enjoy!

Carnival

I'm on a ride

that never seems to stop.

There are no laughing children,

or the sound of

circus melodies

sweetening the breeze.

Only ragged breaths,

shaking shoulders,

teardrops drifting down

mascara-stained cheeks.

The sun doesn't shine

on this amusement park.

And with each round

of the vicious cycle,

filled with pain and trembling,

trembling and pain,

a part of me breaks

and slowly falls,

only to shatter into pieces

at the bottom

of my soul.

I long to see

the brilliant colors,

try to sense

the smell of popcorn

drifting on the air.

Because it hurts,

oh it hurts

to be on this bleak

little roller coaster,

this loop-de-loop

of suffering.

But I'm stuck

on a painted horse,

spinning round and round,

unable to escape

the crumpled mess

that is my self.

Without hope.

Waiting, always waiting,

for the ride to stop,

for my park to close.

For me to walk

out of that iron gate,

out into the light,

and finally go home.

Peace, love, and happiness

-Becca

Just a Quick Note

Just a little bit of information for all you readers. There's a fish bowl on my page!!!! Yeah! It's so cool, so thank you to whoever made up this cool gadget. If you click on the screen, fish food pops up, it's awesome! That's all for now, but don't worry, I'll have more posts out soon!

Peace, love, and happiness

-Becca

The Help by Kathryn Stockett Review

Three ordinary women are about to take one extraordinary step.

Twenty-two-year-old Skeeter has just returned home after graduating from Ole Miss. She may have a degree, but it is 1962, Mississippi, and her mother will not be happy till Skeeter has a ring on her finger. Skeeter would normally find solace with her beloved maid Constantine, the woman who raised her, but Constantine has disappeared and no one will tell Skeeter where she has gone.

Aibileen is a black maid, a wise, regal woman raising her seventeenth white child. Something has shifted inside her after the loss of her own son, who died while his bosses looked the other way. She is devoted to the little girl she looks after, though she knows both their hearts may be broken.

Minny, Aibileen's best friend, is short, fat, and perhaps the sassiest woman in Mississippi. She can cook like nobody's business, but she can't mind her tongue, so she's lost yet another job. Minny finally finds a position working for someone too new to town to know her reputation. But her new boss has secrets of her own.

Seemingly as different from one another as can be, these women will nonetheless come together for a clandestine project that will put them all at risk. And why? Because they are suffocating within the lines that define their town and their times. And sometimes lines are made to be crossed. (www.kathrynstockett.com)

As a reader, I usually am extremely picky. I don't enjoy books less than 150 pages, and I always stay away from historical fiction. I'm not exactly sure why, but somehow I feel that if things seem too real, I lose that story element. At the same time, however, I adore realistic fiction. Yes, I am truly and girl of contradictions.

But something about this book made me turn around my opinions. Maybe it was the beautiful cover, or the way the plot seemed to gently ease you in to the story. Yet I am inclined to believe that it was the way the author seemed to make the characters come to life. Three different voices, three distinct personalities all waltzed through my bedroom as I read late into the night. I came to recognize each one, from Aibleen's calm honesty, Skeeter's independent but sensitive opinions, to Minny's humorous logic.

Not only were the characters impeccable, the setting was so realistic. My grandmother worked in the NAACP in the North during the 60s, and I have grown up hearing stories of marches, meetings, etc. It was so eye-opening to hear the way African-Americans were treated in the South, and how sometimes the greatest offense is to commit no offense. Although this book doesn't require a box of tissues, its best to read it when you have time to think, because the emotions it stirs about human morals goes beyond tears. This is a must read for all!

Rating: 9.5/10

Breaking Away

Okay, as I'm sure all of you have realized by now, trying to post only about poetry is pretty hard, especially since I can only write when I'm really emotional--which doesn't happen very often. So I'm breaking out of the poetry rut. Don't worry, I'll still be posting my poems, but I won't be posting just poems. I've decided to start blogging about the books I read also. So tune in soon for my first ever book review!!!

Peace, love, and happiness

-Becca

Silver and Red: A Short Story

Ohmigod, ohmigod, I cannot describe how incredibly sorry I am for taking so long to put up another post. It seemed like my brain was just out of the whole "writer's dimension" in the past month. But no worries, I can guarantee that this post will most definitely be interesting to say the least. I know I'm not usually the type to thank the people who helped me write my latest pieces, but this time I'm making an exception. Thank you from the bottom of my heart, Mr. Mac. Writing a short story, especially on-demand, is anything but easy. Thanks for helping me edit the finished product and making it an example of my best work. You're the best!!!! And now, ladies and gentlemen (dim lights), our feature presentation...

Silver and Red

The only thing I remember about when the Scientists came to take away my 14-year-old sister, Mala, was that the sun was shining. I recall thrusting clenched fists into the golden brightness and sobbing, unable to understand why the sky would not match the tumult in my heart. I remember screaming and blood, and an Officer handing my mother handfuls of crisp bills, but nothing else. I didn't know, I didn't comprehend, until it was my turn. Now I was in a living nightmare as each of my footfalls echoed in the long, icy cold stone corridor. On my 14th birthday, my mother had dressed me in a new pleated skirt and twisted bright silk ribbons into my chestnut hair.

"It's your birthday, Iza." She had murmured happily into my ear, sending little shivers of joy down my spine, "Good things are sure to come." Exactly 22 minutes later I was being shoved into a long, black car by two Scientists as my mother called, "Enjoy your trip darling!", with pale green money flowing from her hands. "Happy birthday!" But even before the shock of her betrayal wore off, I knew what was happening. I had heard stories of children mysteriously vanishing on the day they turned 14-- it was said that they went to a top-secret cloning lab with Scientists everywhere. Scientists, really? They were a thing of horror stories and malicious pranks. Yet here I was, riding towards my death, delivered by the dreaded Scientists themselves.

"I must escape." I thought to myself as I was rushed into a bright white room. "I could run away, maybe steal some food or clothes." I imagined as Scientists in long white robes forced my to strip and doused my in rubbing alcohol. Dressed once again in a flimsy, worn grey dress, I was escorted into a warm, golden-lit room. But the monster sitting behind the heavy oak desk was anything but friendly. Wild and savage scars formed a delicate patchwork on her face and neck. Eyes black as coal dust pierced through me, and I froze in my steps. Her white nostrils flared as if she could sense my racing heart, my shallow, ragged breaths. Slate-thin lips parted to reveal long rows of jagged, ice-pale teeth.

"Iza." She breathed the word, more growl than murmur. All hopes of freedom flew out of me as I stood paralyzed before her. "My darling, it has been too long." Something seemed familiar, maybe the look in her eyes or the strange endearment that lingered on her lips.

"Mama?" I gasped. Tears stung my eyes and for the first time that day I wanted to die, to end everything right now--the pain, the suffering, the betrayal.

"It took you long enough." She smiled again, "Now my dear, we can do this the easy way or the hard way." my own mother, the one who cared for me and loved me, wiped my tears and sang me songs. I couldn't believe it. "No matter," she laughed, misunderstanding my silence and sending a chill down my spine, "How about just starting right now?" Reaching out a claw-like hand, she pressed a bright red button on her desk.

"Wait Mama, please." I begged, "Why do we have to do this?"

"Because," she retorted, "it is our duty. It is my duty to this organization, this community."

"A community?" I cried. "Is that what you call it? What community sells its own children to become experiments?"

She whipped around to face me, teeth bared, "And would you rather I had just given you to them when you were born? That I had never met you, just handed you to your death? We didn't have a choice." Her voice trembled. "They promised that it would be painless, instant." Her face hardened, "They threatened to kill you, to kill all of us! They would ensure to died the most painful death if we refused." Mama looked down at her clasped hands, and I could have sworn I saw a single, crystalline tear drip slowly down her ravaged cheek.

Suddenly she cocked her head, and I heard the footsteps of more Scientists thundering down the hall. "Please," she knelt before me, "I love you more than anything, it wasn't my decision. Please, I beg you," She looked up, eyes brimming with tears, "forgive me." She whispered.

"I--" Before I could speak, a group of Scientists burst into the room. One roughly shoved my mother to the floor, and another grabbed me and jabbed a silver needle into my arm.

"No!" Mama screamed as my vision blurred at the edges.

"I-I forgive you" I murmured, but my words came out as a jumble. I heard the whir of machines, saw the flash of bright equipment, thought I could make out a ripping, sobbing sound. I reached towards the sound, as if to comfort, but I slumped back down as everything faded into darkness.

Peace, love, and happiness

-Becca

The Hurt and The Healing: A Poem

Thank you all for those ideas. God, I don't know what I'd do without you guys giving those motivating comments. This poem came to me when I was listening to a conversation between two people putting wood on a campfire. If I do say so myself, this piece is just as deep, but a little bit more hopeful. Tell me what you think!

The Hurt and The Healing

How's the fire going?

They ask.

Is it burning?

Is it blazing?

Is it filling the air

with torn-up pieces of paper,

drifting on the icy wind?

No, you answer.

The wood is still

too young, too vulnerable.

Chopped to bits

just last summer,

without time to dry,

to breath.

So much smoke,

so little flame.

Too much air to fill,

with no substance

in which to feel.

Come back soon,

you say.

Wait a little.

Think a little.

Watch the wood

dry in the sun,

catch its breath.

Give it some time,

you say.

And soon one shall see

the flame leap eagerly

onto the log's

hardened skin.

Witness its acceptance,

its rebirth.

Give life time,

give it hope.

Hope,

they repeat.

And shake their heads

at your ignorance,

your stupidity.

They get in their car

and drive away.

Leaving you

smiling and nodding,

as you wait

for the wood

to burn.

Peace, love, and happiness

-Becca

Dial 911, Well... Not Really! =)

Okay people, major crisis here. Your favorite blogger, yours truly, is suffering from an extremely deadly case of writer's block (da, da, da...). I have nothing, absolutely nothing, to write about. Every poem or idea I have ends up sounding so depressed-- I'm starting to scare myself! And the strange thing is that I'm really not a naturally sad person. Sure, I'm not the girl who goes around laughing and smiling all the time. But ask anyone who knows me-- I am NOT depressed. And yet, the seemingly incurable writer's block remains, so bad I am forced to blog about my inability to find something to blog about. Do you have any ideas (and please tell me you do!)? Leave a comment!

Peace, love, and happiness

-Becca

Eyes Closed: A Poem

Ok, sorry I haven't posted in a while, but every writer needs her own creative time, right? But before I share my newest creation, I would like to just clear something about the comments you guys give me. If you post a comment, you might observe how it doesn't appear under the post instantly. This is because it goes to my account so I can approve them before they are released. If, by any chance, a comment can upset a reader, the writer of the comment, or myself, it will not be shown to the public. NOTE: This does not mean that I don't read the comments. Almost every day, I go on and see who's commented, and every day your comments touch my heart. Please don't be offended if you don't see yours up there on the blog. Alright, this post's poem was actually inspired by a comment that I received (no, I'm not saying which one). So sit back, relax, and enjoy the.....writing (?)

Eyes Closed

There comes a time

when your heart beats.

Each roll of thunder

an echo of the past.

A light shines faintly

in the distance.

Guidance offered,

yet not accepted.

The urgency to fulfill,

to prove worth,

controls all thought.

Emptiness.

There is a place

if all else fails.

And nothing remains

except the memory of teardrops

on parched strands of space.

The whisper of silk

against the window pane.

A lipstick stain

on a piece of broken glass.

If nothing remains,

who shall follow?

Who? The echo asks, who?

Who, why, when.

The cycle turning

to the pulse of the heart,

to the soul of the teacher,

to the answers to what is yet to come.

Round and round,

like a carousel turning.

Until all that is left

is the sound

of labored breath, pulsing beat.

Growing,

Changing,

Turning.

Filling the nothingness

with the silence of heartsong.

Peace, love, and happiness

- Becca

Comments

Every budding poet's dream is to be discovered, to be understood. We stay up till dawn, flashlight and pen and notebook in hand, writing out our dreams, our thoughts, our desires. And then we show our work to the world, and all we get is "Nice work" or "Good job". Look, I don't think there is anything wrong with a good old pat on the back, but sometimes a pre-teen poet needs a little more. To those who have left all those sincere, thoughtful, and yes, sometimes opinionated comments on my blog-- thank you. You have enabled me to reach a broader output for my work than I ever could have dreamed. The great thing about poetry is that it has many meanings. Your comments have showed me how much a day in the life of a growing-up girl can connect to some people whom I barely know. You've discovered hidden messages and connections that a poet can only imagine others finding. I'll keep on writing, grant you, but it's your comments that keep my believing. Thank you.

Peace, love, and happiness

- Becca

The Taste of Mangoes: A Poem

This poem was actually bases on a true story. I'm not going to say any names, so whoever it's about is safe, no worries!

The Taste of Mangoes

You don't like mangoes.

I know this because

you remind me each time

I bring them in.

Slices of sunshine neatly arranged

in the pale blue tupperware.

You say,

"The taste is too tart"

or sweet

or salty

or, well,

you get the picture.

You dislike,

no, you loath mangoes.

So each time I bring

that pale blue tupperware

into the room,

you beg for a taste.

Each time, of course,

I insist that you'll hate it,

you always do.

To which, of course,

you beg and plead and cajole

until I give you a piece.

NOTE: This is not because

I like you.

It's just that I would like

to pass the 7th grade.

You are not

the quietest person in the world

when you want something.

No offense.

After I relent

and grant you that first morsel,

you proceed to cleanse me

of my burden- the mango.

Reminding me all the while

how much you

"detest mangoes".

Nice try.

This goes on

almost every week.

Do you really "hate"

it so much?

Or is it that

you take pleasure

in my annoyance?

I'm guessing the latter.

In the future, however,

I do have one request:

Next time,

bring your own mango.

Peace, love, and happiness

- Becca

Glory: A Poem

I would just like to talk a little bit about the quote next to my blog title. You know, the one that says: "The job of the poet...Is to create and to capture... And to spirit and to script... The pulse of life." This is from a poem written by Mattie J.T. Stepanek, a boy who died at age thirteen from dysautonomic mitochondrial myopathy. He spent most of his time in the hospital writing beautiful "heart songs". I received one of his books when I turned 9 and I think that is what first really inspired me to write poetry. So, now that we've covered that, it's time to see this posting's poem. I'm warning you, it's a little different from the "dark and dangerous" stuff I posted last, but in a good way. Enjoy!

Glory

The thing about love

is that it's a mess:

Tangled, torn,

a mixed-up, misshapen

version of life.

It's hundreds of tears

lost on one

who paused to wink

at you in the hall,

then never answered

your heartfelt messages.

Love is thinking for hours in bed,

as dawn's fingers gently

brush the horizon.

It is our end.

And our beginning.

Love is like

dark chocolate melting

in the center of our heart.

A miniscule piece,

a small, unimportant

smile.

A deep voice asking your name

or your number

or if you like movies.

Delicious.

It is going to sleep

with the cool light of stars

streaming through your window,

content.

Yes, love is a mess.

A mess that,

although tangled

torn

mixed-up

misshapen

crumbling

and cruel,

is somehow right.

Peace, love, and happiness

-Becca

Quiet: A Poem

Don't you just hate it when you are trying to read or write, and someone just has to be reading over your shoulder while your doing whatever. For instance, right now I'm trying to write another post, but some annoying little snooper (Thanks Dad!) has to be looking at every word I type. Jeesh people!!! Give this poor, lonely writer a break! Anyway, this poem kind of just came to me when I was listening to those creepy ghost noises late one night. I'm not saying I can relate to it in any way, but.... here goes.

Quiet

Voices, loud and piercing,

creeping into the darkness of my room.

Rising, growing

louder and louder,

a never-ending crescendo.

Footsteps down the hall

echoing to my parents' room,

Urgent.

Breathless sobs as the bedroom door

slams shut.

Silence.

A new sound now.

Throwing clothes into bags,

movements rushed, unfeeling.

Military footsteps

back down the hall.

The front door opens,

then slams shut,

as I lay on my bed

no longer safe and warm.

Through the opening of

the fraying curtains

a car takes flight

into the dark.

Gasps and tears

compliment the

fading sound.

A final slam.

The final silence.

Peace, love, and happiness

- Becca

Welcome To My World: A Poem

Okay people, I know some of you have been wondering why on earth I haven't made one single posting about poetry yet. So, I wrote this at around midnight a couple of nights ago. It makes absolutely no sense to me; see if you can make something out of it.

Welcome To My World

She dances around the room,

graceful as a sprite,

and just as mischievous.

Playful, a leaping tendril of fire.

Like fire, always fire.

I sit,

swinging around on my desk chair,

recording my observations.

Looking in at the world

from the outside of

a clear bubble of steel.

Always watching, never speaking.

I'm watching, always watching.

And the world turns.

The fire, the watcher

meet on either sides of

that impenetrable wall of steel.

Fingertips press

against the invisible metal.

Yet no one attempts to break free.

No one ever tries.

They just wait

for someone to free them.

No one ever bridges the gap

between black and white,

hot and cold,

love and hate.

And they never will.

They just wait,

always watching, always burning.

Until someone breaks down

that cruel wall of steel,

and their entire world

topples around them.

Peace, love, and happiness

-Becca

Hidden Safety Nets

What's a safety net? It's something you can have to fall back on, to lean on, when you need that little boost. A safety net could be a beloved toy, your old baby blanket, or (in my case) a favorite book. But author's have safety nets too-- things they use so often in their stories that it sort of becomes a trademark. Take Maria V. Snyder, acclaimed author of the Study series (Poison Study, Magic Study, and Fire Study, for example. In her books, she uses the French word "rendezvous" (pronounced "rahn-deh-voo"--I know, weird!) about every third page. For example, "rendezvous with the horses", "rendezvous with Valek at the Ixia border", you get the picture. Now don't get me wrong, I absolutely adore Snyder's work. She knows exactly how to write about heroines, romance, and adventure. I probably reread her books almost every week. I just think it's sort of cool how authors have habits when they write. Now, I wonder what my "safety net" is...

Peace, love, and happiness

- Becca

Drum Roll Please...

Okay people, welcome to (insert trumpets) my blog!!! In this blog I will post info about my love of poetry and anything related to writing. So sit back, relax, and pretend to care about what I'll say in the next posting. ;o)

Peace, love, and happiness

- Becca