"Go read my stories peeps! http://inkpop.com/Profile/Default.aspx?u..."
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(I have more for leaving if anyone wants it) ]]>
My parents really didn't care about my writing. They knew I did it, but as they were concerned, it was just a hobby that I was going to get over. Well, recently I added out of state family to my Facebook, and I posted links so they could read my stories. Well, my step mom finally read one, and she said I was really amazing. Before this, the plan was to find a dance based charter school, but my step mom said I should look into one with a writing program. ]]>
Well, are we or are we not allowed to comment on a persons intro. This is AYUNDA's topic.
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Okay, this is my new story I'm working on. Any good????
As long as I live, I’ll never see a day of sun. As long as I live, I’ll never get a real live day of fun. Joy. That’s just the price I pay, and I’ll happily pay it for the ones I love. Maybe it’s selfish. Maybe it’s selfless. I don’t know. What I do know, however, is that my life is not a life, but a confinement. A jail made especially for my soul. Sometimes, I regret it, but then I think of my baby sister’s smile. She was so innocent. She must hate me. I am not half the sister I once was. Living here. Dying, not living. That was a hundred times more accurate. Its cold and I’ve not seen the sun once since feeling forced to move here. I had to leave them behind. I had hurt the little sister that I loved so much. Love, not loved. I wish I could still see her. But, after doing everything right for so long, and no one remembering to thank me. But, I do one thing wrong, and no one will forget it. Except for little Ava. She looks at me, her eyes so round, so bright, their own shade of green-brown, made just for her, I know she forgives me. She shouldn’t, but she does. And sometimes, it’s the easiest thing in the world for me to hate about myself. I don’t talk to her, and she forgives me, but how can I forgive myself, hurting her like that? Maybe she loves me too. I hope so. I hope she can look past my mistakes, even the ones that hurt her so much, the ones she faces and struggles with, every day, for the rest of her life. I wouldn’t have been able to. Maybe that’s what makes a person strong. Their ability to forget, and love. If that really was true, I had to be the weakest person alive. Save George W. Bush. He was the exception.
Walking down the streets of misty, cold, depressing, Alaska, I wandered into one of the few, oh so few, coffee shops. Even Starbucks didn’t see any point in putting one up here. This town is babies, and old, retired people. There were about seven other people here close to my own age, 24.
The coffee at Café Coffee tasted like crap, but they had the best triple chocolate muffins, and for cheap. I swear, the things go straight to your thighs, but the way they taste, even Jenny Craig couldn’t put one of these bad boys down. I ordered my muffin, paying a dollar to the old women that ran the shop, Emma-Lee. Sitting down, I took in my surroundings, as I did most days. The trees, the open space, even the air disgusted me. New York missed me. I really should get back to work, I thought. I worked from home writing, editing, and publishing books. I was editing my friends, and she was the best author I’d ever known. The nice thing about writing, you were recognized solely for talent. Nobody cared how many muffins you ate, as long as your fingers could still type. Although, if you’re J.K. Rowling, nobody gave a damn, as long as Harry Potter didn’t go out of stock at the nearest Wal-Mart. And as long as they were still making the movies, because some people really didn’t have the will to read a book. To bad that’s almost everyone in America. Maybe I should move somewhere else. Japan? No. I’m 5’ 8”, with curly rose wood colored. I wouldn’t fit very well there. To bad too. I love sushi. Not that I could get it anywhere in this town. My phone started to play Fireflies by Owl City, and I got some very nasty looks from the old couples enjoying their Sunday paper and craptastic coffee. I rolled my eyes, grabbed my obese muffin (the muffins were probably 3 times the size of my hand), and walked outside, not bothering to check the caller ID, and immediately regretting it.
“ Lisa!” My somewhat-not-really-best friend screamed at me. I sighed.
“Yes?” I was short, inconsistent, and offend cancelled any plans at the last minute, hoping she’d take a hint. But, alas, she was oblivious to the obvious, and I couldn’t be a heart-less bitch. Well, anymore... Another story for another time I suppose.
“O-M-FREAKING-GEE!!! Brain asked me to marry him! And I said yes! And the weddings going to be in the summer! And you totally have to be my maid of honor! Please? Don’t make me beg!!!!” It was an understood threat. I wanted to cry at her news. Not for happiness, but for the reminder of my own, love-less, lonely life. I couldn’t be with anyone though. Not with how absolutely selfish I am. I couldn’t force that onto someone else. Never.
“Ummm… Of course I will. Congrats. Ummmm… I’ll call you later. I’m at… The airport! Yeah. I’m at the airport. So… I’ll talk to you later?” I said. It was a bogus lie, and I shouldn’t have said it, but I did, and… Well, now I needed to hide for a little while, so she wouldn’t know I lied. Fan-freaking-tastic. I flipped my phone closed and walked a block to my beautiful black, 2010 mustang. I got in, starting the car, thinking about what I was supposed to do now. Not really conscientious of what I was doing, I drove home, thinking about little Ava.
A few years ago, I picked her up from daycare. I was only 17. We were… I was driving too fast. 60 in a 30, showing off. At the time, I was driving a little Civic Honda. Ava was probably 8 at the time, and I 17. After passing Cobbler St, I don’t remember anything. Just a second, when Ava screamed. The bright, white, lights were blaring, from the center going out. The edges, where I could see so faintly, were blue, red, and green. I don’t know where the green light came from, but the blue was my car, and red. The red was my blood. Ava’s. That part hurt most. Seeing her blood, on the street, and, most literally and figuratively, in my own hands. I ended up with a few broken ribs, and some head trauma. Nothing serious. Ava, being so little, ended up breaking her leg, in three different places. Head trauma. Tons of cuts and bruises on her face, from the shattered glass.
I was let out of the hospital, and left the same day, leaving a letter for Ava, telling her I was sorry, and that was that.
Maybe I was a bad sister. No. I was a great sister, before the accident. Then, I won the world’s worst sister award.
Before I knew where I was, thinking the accident always just kind of brought me away, I was packing. I didn’t know where I was going, but my seemed too. Must be better then here. By the time I was on the plane, I had realized what I was doing. Going back to New York? Ava was 15, too old to want to see me. The miserable excuse for a sister. The grim thought made me smile.
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Me too!! ]]>
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