Emily Kinney's Blog - Posts Tagged "blog"
i don't like blogs
Yes, this is the truth, even if in today's society it is considered a vulgar one. I simply do not like blogs. I don't understand the appeal of blogs, the need for blogs, and the overall obsession with blogs. Yes, I recognize the fact that sometimes people have so much swirling around in their noggin that it is causing their vision to become blurry and for them to walk into wall, so therefore they need a depository of somesort. Usually mine is pacing around my room muttering to myself. Sharing such mutterings to . . . anyone has always been a perposterous notion, especially since most of them would only unnerve people, or downright freak them out. My mind is not a picnic; proceed with caution.
So, indeed, the question deserves asking, why, if I am so opposed to blogs and blogging and anything that starts with B and ends with G, am I typing one right now? Well, the skinny of the matter is that it has been recommended to me multiple times by multiple sources for multiple reasons, but, if we're being honest, mostly one. I have written a book, managed to get it published, and now what the world to enjoy it. It must be admitted that a book is only good if it is being perused and devoured and giving people the emotions intended by the author. So, therefore, we endure a hefty force known as Marketing. Are blogs part of marketing? Apparently. It seems that they are no longer solely for expressing one's deep, profound, twisting, churning emotions that can't be explained to either close friends or therapists, but must be typed out online; or for exploiting forms of entertainment and declaring opinions, whether educated or instinctual, about whatever or whoever. (Which, by the by, can either help a career or hurt feelings, so be cautious when blogging.)
No, it seems the that the notorious four letter b word that sounds so startlingly similar to "blob" but isn't, has become a key factor in word-spreading.
Though, to give due credit, it might also be a way to connect. I think that's what Goodreads wants me to do on here. To connect with people. Which, truthfully, I have no problem with. I love people; I love connecting with people. I do want people to get to know me as an author, though I would be satisfied just with people knowing that I exist as an author, period. I've been at this for so long that, now that it is finally, really happening, it can sometimes feel surreal. There's so much to me and to my writing that it's hard to put into something like a blog, which I've never kept before. Shoot, I only make diary entries every three to five years. Reality just isn't my forte, ya know what I'm saying?
So, to break it down for you, I'm not a hateful person. I'm acctually very loving and have a huge, tender, bright red heart, but I just DON'T LIKE BLOGS. But, I'm about to attempt to keep one. Because maybe someone will read it. And maybe that someone will be important to me one day, and maybe, and more hopefully, I might be important to them one day.
My name is Emily Kinney; I'm a 21 year author from Maine; my novel is called The Island of Lote, and it's on Goodreads and on facebook. And, as of now, I am a blogger. (sigh) Heaven help me.
So, indeed, the question deserves asking, why, if I am so opposed to blogs and blogging and anything that starts with B and ends with G, am I typing one right now? Well, the skinny of the matter is that it has been recommended to me multiple times by multiple sources for multiple reasons, but, if we're being honest, mostly one. I have written a book, managed to get it published, and now what the world to enjoy it. It must be admitted that a book is only good if it is being perused and devoured and giving people the emotions intended by the author. So, therefore, we endure a hefty force known as Marketing. Are blogs part of marketing? Apparently. It seems that they are no longer solely for expressing one's deep, profound, twisting, churning emotions that can't be explained to either close friends or therapists, but must be typed out online; or for exploiting forms of entertainment and declaring opinions, whether educated or instinctual, about whatever or whoever. (Which, by the by, can either help a career or hurt feelings, so be cautious when blogging.)
No, it seems the that the notorious four letter b word that sounds so startlingly similar to "blob" but isn't, has become a key factor in word-spreading.
Though, to give due credit, it might also be a way to connect. I think that's what Goodreads wants me to do on here. To connect with people. Which, truthfully, I have no problem with. I love people; I love connecting with people. I do want people to get to know me as an author, though I would be satisfied just with people knowing that I exist as an author, period. I've been at this for so long that, now that it is finally, really happening, it can sometimes feel surreal. There's so much to me and to my writing that it's hard to put into something like a blog, which I've never kept before. Shoot, I only make diary entries every three to five years. Reality just isn't my forte, ya know what I'm saying?
So, to break it down for you, I'm not a hateful person. I'm acctually very loving and have a huge, tender, bright red heart, but I just DON'T LIKE BLOGS. But, I'm about to attempt to keep one. Because maybe someone will read it. And maybe that someone will be important to me one day, and maybe, and more hopefully, I might be important to them one day.
My name is Emily Kinney; I'm a 21 year author from Maine; my novel is called The Island of Lote, and it's on Goodreads and on facebook. And, as of now, I am a blogger. (sigh) Heaven help me.
Persistent Disappointment.
Okay, so June hasn't exactly been everything, or really anything, that I had hoped it would be. I thought that I was going to spend this glorious month in a tizzy of business and progress, all wrapped up in one word: Expos. As in, book expos. Due to some not so clear statements made by my CMP manager, I thought that I was going to be attending a total of three expos during June, and, to be honest, I hadn't been so excited about anything in a very long time. I felt life and energy returning to my veins, and happiness flooding my mind, soul, body, and spirit. I felt hope and possibilities, and once again I was able to relish all the little things, like the rustling of leaves by a warm evening breeze, or the gooiness of freshly melted cheese. Don't get me wrong, I usually appreciate all that stuff, but during that surge of excitement it was like it was all hitting me in high def.
I wish it had lasted. I really wish it had. My biggest goal career-wise, other than becoming a master storyteller, is to tour, and going to expos and representing there is an excellent launching pad. After all, you get to use airports and hotels, which is all I've really ever wanted. Yes, hotels and airports are actually what I daydream about. I'd say dream too, but my dreams typically are never that ordinary. You can actually control daydreams.
Anyway, to say that I thought that my life was actually now beginning would be a very acurate statement. When no one was contacting me about going, however, I did start to get extremely antsy. Finally, last Tuesday, I learned the truth. I was not going to any expos to represent my book. A team was going and THEY would represent my book. I was welcomed to attend as a visitor, of course.
Blast! My disappointment was intense, and yes I did shed tears, but emotions of any kind hit me hard, so it was to be expected. But, since I was also angry, I bounced back fairly quickly. I started looking at other possible expos and fairs and conventions to go to, and actually found something that sounded awesome. Then, however, I learned a hard truth: These things take extravagant amounts of money, and I have no money.
Oh, money. The guillotine of dreams and aspirations. Now, the only reason, besides wisedom, that I'm not throwing it all in and going for broke is because I know that I'm going to need money for the book in the near future. Being an indie author isn't easy, and when your book is the insane, irrational, irrevocable, even-if-you-beg-they-won't-change-it price that mine is, the difficulty of the situation is increased ten-fold. But, in the midst of all the sludgy darkness, there came a pinprick of light.
I had entered the New York Book Festival contest back in May. The winners were announced this week. I placed Honorable Mentions. Now, since I'm an uber-conpetitve person, I was disappointed that I didn't get first or even second. However, after reading why they chose the grand prize winner, I did understand a little. My book, while awesome and very well written, simply isn't an angsty book. Judges are looking for characters and storylines of angst, and that isn't in my novel. My novel, described honestly, is fun. It's refreshing. It makes you laugh and enjoy yourself and think that maybe the world isn't so bad after all. The angst and heartache and hard subjects simply have been put to the side, and that's OKAY!
Yes, I most certainly like books that deal with that stuff; I love books that make you feel and make you think, and yes I will be tackling such in my own books in the future, but really people. Aren't there enough novels out there like that? I know I'm a little fed up with teenage guts twisting and them dealing with abandonment and dead relatives and the meaning to life, the universe, and everything.
So, no, I'm not apologizing for the novel I wrote, just because it's CONTENT isn't destined to win overall in contests. A teenage romantic comedy on a tropical island? Yeah, not exactly poignant and heart-wrenching. I get it. I really do. But I don't care. I'm proud of my book, I don't write to win contests.
So, after getting over that, I learned that I could still go the reception in New York. Yay! One night, mingle with fellow authors, have a nice dinner, make friends and impressions, count me in! And then, after doing some travel research, the blade once again came down on the spinal cord of my enthusiasm. Traveling is expensive. Very expensive. Use all the discount travel sites you want, if you don't have any money to begin with, it's not gonna help.
I was so disappointed. Again. It was a disappointment that left me rather burned out. Feeling rather squashed on the sidewalk with no motivation to crawl back to the safety of the weeds, if you want to look at it from a bug's standpoint.
I do have a job; I am making money. But, like I said before, the book requires other expenses, and, when I look deep within my heart, I know I'd rather spend money on them and not go broke taking a flight to New York. Though I really wanted to go. Even though I'd probably get mugged. (I know that's pessimistic, but sometimes pessimism is soothing.)
Everything's a bit overwhelming right now, but mostly disappointment is. When you want money purely because you want to go do something with your life, but you don't have any, so you can't, it just plain sucks. Everyone around me is in a relationship, or getting engaged, or making strides at there job, and here I am, opting to be an author. I've settled myself into my own little puddle of ambition and stress, and right now, at this very moment, I feel so blue.
And yes, logically I know that it won't last. I know that through hard work and determination everything will resurface and progress will actually happen. Sometimes you just need to vent, and this is definitely one of those times.
I know I sound really bitter right now, and the last post was equally bitter, and so you're probably coming to the conclusion that I'm a bitter person. Well, despite the lack of evidence and all the proof stacked against me, which I myself willingly provided, the reality is no; generally I'm not a bitter person. I know you don't believe me, but I'm just getting started, so hang in there and trust me. I just needed to get this off my chest because right now I'm feeling so low, and the best way to cast off such burdens is to relay them in plain . . . whatever, type, speech, boxing classes, and move on. And blogs, as it happens, are prime territory for such emotional flushing.
So thanks for listening. I do feel much better. Hopefully my posts in the future will be much more cheerful and optimistic. Have a delightful day. :)
I wish it had lasted. I really wish it had. My biggest goal career-wise, other than becoming a master storyteller, is to tour, and going to expos and representing there is an excellent launching pad. After all, you get to use airports and hotels, which is all I've really ever wanted. Yes, hotels and airports are actually what I daydream about. I'd say dream too, but my dreams typically are never that ordinary. You can actually control daydreams.
Anyway, to say that I thought that my life was actually now beginning would be a very acurate statement. When no one was contacting me about going, however, I did start to get extremely antsy. Finally, last Tuesday, I learned the truth. I was not going to any expos to represent my book. A team was going and THEY would represent my book. I was welcomed to attend as a visitor, of course.
Blast! My disappointment was intense, and yes I did shed tears, but emotions of any kind hit me hard, so it was to be expected. But, since I was also angry, I bounced back fairly quickly. I started looking at other possible expos and fairs and conventions to go to, and actually found something that sounded awesome. Then, however, I learned a hard truth: These things take extravagant amounts of money, and I have no money.
Oh, money. The guillotine of dreams and aspirations. Now, the only reason, besides wisedom, that I'm not throwing it all in and going for broke is because I know that I'm going to need money for the book in the near future. Being an indie author isn't easy, and when your book is the insane, irrational, irrevocable, even-if-you-beg-they-won't-change-it price that mine is, the difficulty of the situation is increased ten-fold. But, in the midst of all the sludgy darkness, there came a pinprick of light.
I had entered the New York Book Festival contest back in May. The winners were announced this week. I placed Honorable Mentions. Now, since I'm an uber-conpetitve person, I was disappointed that I didn't get first or even second. However, after reading why they chose the grand prize winner, I did understand a little. My book, while awesome and very well written, simply isn't an angsty book. Judges are looking for characters and storylines of angst, and that isn't in my novel. My novel, described honestly, is fun. It's refreshing. It makes you laugh and enjoy yourself and think that maybe the world isn't so bad after all. The angst and heartache and hard subjects simply have been put to the side, and that's OKAY!
Yes, I most certainly like books that deal with that stuff; I love books that make you feel and make you think, and yes I will be tackling such in my own books in the future, but really people. Aren't there enough novels out there like that? I know I'm a little fed up with teenage guts twisting and them dealing with abandonment and dead relatives and the meaning to life, the universe, and everything.
So, no, I'm not apologizing for the novel I wrote, just because it's CONTENT isn't destined to win overall in contests. A teenage romantic comedy on a tropical island? Yeah, not exactly poignant and heart-wrenching. I get it. I really do. But I don't care. I'm proud of my book, I don't write to win contests.
So, after getting over that, I learned that I could still go the reception in New York. Yay! One night, mingle with fellow authors, have a nice dinner, make friends and impressions, count me in! And then, after doing some travel research, the blade once again came down on the spinal cord of my enthusiasm. Traveling is expensive. Very expensive. Use all the discount travel sites you want, if you don't have any money to begin with, it's not gonna help.
I was so disappointed. Again. It was a disappointment that left me rather burned out. Feeling rather squashed on the sidewalk with no motivation to crawl back to the safety of the weeds, if you want to look at it from a bug's standpoint.
I do have a job; I am making money. But, like I said before, the book requires other expenses, and, when I look deep within my heart, I know I'd rather spend money on them and not go broke taking a flight to New York. Though I really wanted to go. Even though I'd probably get mugged. (I know that's pessimistic, but sometimes pessimism is soothing.)
Everything's a bit overwhelming right now, but mostly disappointment is. When you want money purely because you want to go do something with your life, but you don't have any, so you can't, it just plain sucks. Everyone around me is in a relationship, or getting engaged, or making strides at there job, and here I am, opting to be an author. I've settled myself into my own little puddle of ambition and stress, and right now, at this very moment, I feel so blue.
And yes, logically I know that it won't last. I know that through hard work and determination everything will resurface and progress will actually happen. Sometimes you just need to vent, and this is definitely one of those times.
I know I sound really bitter right now, and the last post was equally bitter, and so you're probably coming to the conclusion that I'm a bitter person. Well, despite the lack of evidence and all the proof stacked against me, which I myself willingly provided, the reality is no; generally I'm not a bitter person. I know you don't believe me, but I'm just getting started, so hang in there and trust me. I just needed to get this off my chest because right now I'm feeling so low, and the best way to cast off such burdens is to relay them in plain . . . whatever, type, speech, boxing classes, and move on. And blogs, as it happens, are prime territory for such emotional flushing.
So thanks for listening. I do feel much better. Hopefully my posts in the future will be much more cheerful and optimistic. Have a delightful day. :)
And you didn’t say a word. . . .
I just don’t know anymore, man. What I would like to know is what’s wrong with you. What glitch occured in your brain when you were born. What event struck you so hard in life that it made you what you are now. Not Who, but What. What’s wrong with you, dude? Because I’m done thinking that it’s me. That I’m the problem. That something is the matter with me. It’s not. Never was. I’m not perfect, heck to the no. But I’m still great. Very great. A person worth pursuing. A person worth fighting for. Someone you should be dying to talk on the phone with, or be always sending little messages to just because you can’t help it. Dang it, dude! I wanted to give you everything!
I was offering you my heart, on a big freakin’ silver platter, all served up and ready for you to devour or cherish or something, freakin’ SOMETHING, but no. You didn’t take it. You didn’t want it. Crap, dude, I don’t think you even glanced at it. While I was groping and crawling around in darkness and confusion and despair, you were off having a jolly time, totally unaware and determined to stay that way. Screw the fact that we’ve been friends since we were five! Screw all those years of feelings and getting close, being willing to try, but nothing ever actually happening. Hell, right? It’s just me. “It’s just Emily, she’ll be all right. So what if I lead her on? So what if I envoke feeling within her that she’s never felt with anyone else nor ever will? She’ll be okay. She’s a real down girl. A real tough little weirdo. She’ll muddle through one way or another. I needn’t worry about her at all. So therefore I can do whatever I want to her without concerning myself about the consequences. Because, as long as I play my cards right, none of it will ever get back to me. I won’t ever have to rue what I’ve done. All I have to do is exploit her soft and forgiving heart. Lucky me that she has one of those, otherwise all this cruel meddling would never work! Ha! Well, it’ll be fun while it lasts, and after I’ve had my gluttonous fill, I’ll move on and find a different woman to treat right. Emily’s not the scum of Skid Row or anything, but like hell she’ll be the one I’m going to treat right!”
That’s how it is, isn’t it, you little scumbag? The whole world revolves around you and your desires. And me? Weeeeeell, I’m just sort of here, right? Nothing to bat an eyelash over. “Hey, Emily fell over! She’s splayed out across the floor.” “That’s okay. Just step over her.”
Is that it? Is that how you and everyone else sees me? I would love for you to shove some evidence in my face that speaks to the contrary. Shoot, dude! I wanted it all with you! I wanted the dang house, the dang wedding, the dang sex, the dang freakin’ growing old together and holding each other when we cried. (That is, when I cried, since, of course, you aren’t a cryer, are you? Not one dang tear ever dribbled down your face, has it? What’s it like? Must be nice. Hope you’re eternally grateful that you don’t know what it’s like to cry. To cry when you don’t want to but have no power stop yourself. To cry until you fall asleep and you wake up with your eyes stiff and crusty. To cry until your throat is raw and you feel empty. Lucky you’ve never known these things, dude. Real lucky.)
. . . . I was going to continue on ranting, and considering how torn up my heart is, I have every right to and you deserve it, but we just had an earthquake and, let’s say, the Bigger Picture just got a whole lot bigger.
So, I think I’m just going to tie things up here. It’s not even like you’ll ever see this anyway. So . . . yeah, I told you I was in love with you and you never said a word. I realized my own worth and that you don’t deserve me, so I am now free but still in love, so not entirely free I guess. You are tactless, thoughtless, a jerk, and all kinds of other, more profane words. I wish things had worked out between us, or that we even might have a possibility in the future, but apparently not. Because you essentially said No. “No thank you. I might have implied, or even down right stated that I want you, but I lied. I want something else. Someone who is not you. Someone who, if I listed my criteria right, could never be you. I might have said sorry at one point, but I didn’t really mean it. I don’t really care. It was hilarious that you thought I did, though. Thanks, kid. You gave me a good laugh.”
Well, you know what, Joel? Efffffffff you! You never chased, you never pursued, you never stepped up or called or told me what was going on so that I was in a constant state of confusion. You never kept me informed about how you felt or tried to make plans with me, or even tossed me a cookie. All you ever freakin’ tossed me was crumbs, and I gladly gobbled them up like the idiot I used to be. Well, why don’t we try to change things now? How about I become the ultra-awesome, desirable, yet untouchable one? How about you salivate after me while I continuously brush YOU off, for a change? This sounds like a good idea to me, because I am dang sick of all this freakin’ pain.
You’re a moron, Joel. You really are. You could have had all of the purest, most profound, most potent love that the world has ever known, and you said No. Whoa! Wait a minute! Uh-uh! You didn’t say no, did you? You didn’t say a word.
It Then Led Her Elsewhere
There wasn’t any noise or movement or any other logical explanation that night for Kirsta waking up. She was a sound sleeper and far from the habit of waking randomly during Earth’s dark hours. Her bed was soft, adorned with sumptuous, one-hundred-percent cotton peacock patterened sheets, with matching down throw pillows that she claimed to her mother she had to have.
“Some things were meant to be in sets,” Kirsta had explained to her. “Like drums, or flatware.”
So, discomfort wasn’t to blame. Later, when she had the time to look back and wonder, Kirsta could not actually recall the reason why she woke up, unprompted. But she did.
Her eyelids slid back uncerimoniously, revealing enormous, dialated pupils surrounded by clover green rings. A mishapen lump sat directly in her line of vision, and when she slammed her lathargic arm down on it, it proved to be a pillow. Not one of the throws, but a respectable pillow just the same. Groaning and rubbing her porclin forehead, Kirsta rolled onto her back, annoyed at being awake. Reaching out blindly, her hand found her tiny, cheapest-they-had alarm clock and brought it to her face. 12:07.
“Ullllgg!” she grumbled, flinging it back with revolt. Twelve oh seven at night was a time for insombiacs and those saucy individuals who liked late shows. Not for her. Not when ther was school and baton and her complection to think about.
Unable to determine what had roused her, Kirsta, in turn, rolled her eyes and then her body, snuggling back down into the luscious blue and green sheets. But, before she could shut her eyes once more, a flicker alerted them to the far wall of her room. There, floating as inconspicuously as a fly in someone’s lemonade, was an oval-ish sort of light.
Kirsta blinked. It was still there. She squinted. It didn’t disappear.
“What the . . . ?” she whispered, slowly propping herself up on one elbow. Chestnut hair, straight and silky with tending, fell like drapery over her shoulders and down her back. One of her favorite assets, her collar bones, stuck out as she hunched closer to the edge of the bed, her brows wrinkling in confusion.
The light remained where it was. It did not waver. However, it did seem to glow.
How long she stared at it, reassuring herself that she was really awake and that it was really there, Kirsta did not know. Not too long, though, because her arm started to ache from holding her up.
Shoving aside the blanket, Kirsta lowered her bare, bird-boned feet to the floor, her gaze never leaving the light. Standing up slowly, as if she were afraid she’d spook it, she tentatively walked towards it. It didn’t move. Stretching an arm, she brushed the spot with her fingers, but felt only wall. Sheetrock and interior paint. The glowing oval did light up her hand, though, making the typically pale skin a warm yellow, almost honey like.
Still frowning, only now with curiosity, Kirsta looked behind her to see where the light might be coming from, and saw her window. Her window overlooked the edge of a woods. She used to play there when she was younger, and full of free-spirited emotions and musings, but those were days long passed. It had been quite some time since it had even touched her thoughts.
Quickly, yet being careful not to make any noise and alert her fellow house-dwellers, Kirsta glided to the window, her eyes darting back and forth between it and the light on her wall. Looking past the glass and into the inkiness of the night, Kirsta’s breath froze in her throat. There, in the midst of the bark and tree trunks, was another light. Well, probably the same one, only travelling through the foliage, it’s source somewhere amid the trees.
Kirsta stared, mesmerized. What was it? Not a flashlight. It would have jiggled or something by now. Not a camp fire. Not a lanturn. Surely, there wasn’t anything that could make it shine so far and strong, especially with so many obstacles in the way. What on Earth was it?
Curiosity and a long-burried sense of adventure now overrode Kirsta’s reasoning. She could have gone back to bed, yes, but the light still would have been there on her wall, teasing her, haunting her. She couldn’t stare at a mystery all night. She’d go crazy.
Thoughts of tomorrow and what the consequences might be for sneaking out evaporated from her mind, a rush of adrenaline washing away her weariness. Tiptoeing to her beauru, she pulled out some socks and a bra, since wandering through the woods at night just screamed bra to her. After all, she really wasn’t a kid anymore. Slipping on a pair of sneakers and a zip up hoodie, she crept to the door, double checking that the glowing, golden light was still hovering there. It was.
Getting out of the house proved to be easier than she had anticipated. Being so far on the outskirts of town did occationally have it’s advantages. Such as, her father hadn’t invested in the pricey, automated alarm system that all the other fathers had. A deadbolt was good enough for him, particularly since he was a man who considered the best kind of security to be an oak baseball bat. This almost crossed Kirsta’s mind as she slid back the deadbolt, but only almost. Thankfully, everyone was sound asleep. Once on the outside, the night air surprisingly warm and inviting, Kirsta eased the front door shut again and took off around the house.
Scurrying up to the woods, she eagerly looked around for the light, and saw it. Gaze locked on it, Kirsta took slow, measured steps towards the treeline, suddenly well aware of what she was doing, and perhaps maybe she should try for a little caution. Not that anything too unsavory lived in this wood, the worst just an occational groundhog. But, still.
It almost felt like the woods swallowed her when she entered, but after a quick look over her shoulder at her house, sitting there in the dark, familiar, welcoming, always going to be there if she wanted to go back, Kirsta shook off the feeling and began walking.
She followed the light through brush and dips in the ground and all kinds of trees. Birches and maples and pines, all looming way up over her head, and yet not intimidating at all. Kirsta didn’t feel scared. The trees seemed friendly, almost as if they were happy to see her. It was so warm out, the air alive with the sound of crickets and peepers, that Kirsta couldn’t help but feel perfectly safe. And besides, the light kept her company.
For a while she journeyed, huffing just a little as she trundled through undergrowth and gradually becoming aware that she, Kirsta Sevaan, was roving through a forest in the middle of the night, instead of being tucked in bed, resting up for the next day. Further more, she was chasing after a light that probably was just some nut trying to contact the aliens. What exactly was she thinking?
However, before her common sense could return and force her to go back the way she had come, something else caught her eye. Up ahead, the trees came to an abrupt halt, because there was a clearing. The light was also getting brighter. Larger.
Her mental chalkboard wiped once more, Kirsta headed for the clearing, green eyes wide. As she emerged from the cover of the treetops, her mouth bobbed in awe. There, in the middle of the carpet of soft, long grass, was a tent.
Of course, ‘tent’ might be too commonplace a word for it. ‘Tent’ is typically used to describe the canvas-walled lean-to things people camp in, or the huge, hold-a-city striped forts erected at the circus. Kirsta didn’t know who had put this one up, but they were certainly not camping or from the circus. It was small and circular, its plush sides purple, orange, and blue swirls, as was its pointed roof. Gold, tasselly trimming hung all around where the walls and roof met, with various object dangling from thin chains every yard or so. And then, crowning it like the star on a Christmas tree, was the source of Kirsta’s excursion: A vibrant, dewy, raindrop-shaped lanturn that sat atop the point on a rod. As she approached, Kirsta could make out ornate designs adorning the lanturn, which might have been the size of a street light.
Of all the explanations Kirsta had conjured in her head, this didn’t even come close. As stunned as she was, somehow she managed to keep walking, though her footsteps were much smaller now. She circled around the mysterious, incredibly out-0f-place tent, giving it wide berth. The oxygen around her was quiet now; all the insect life and swifty sounds made by the breezes through the leaves had died away.
The intricate lanturn up above illuminated the tent enough for Kirsta to make out and appreciate the details in its fabric, as well as its ornaments. Baffled, not just at its majestic appearence, but at the fact it was standing there at all, Kirsta paused just to gape at it. Who had put it there? And why there, of all places? In the center of a nondescript forest that was only still around because developers hadn’t taken notice of it yet. Just what was so important about here? And of course, the final, most crucial question: What was inside?
Both causion and curiosity burning within her intensely, Kirsta continued surveying the tent at a distance, until she finally arrived at the opening; the mouth, as it’s been called by some. It’s door was nothing more than a flap of the luxurious fabric, and it been drawn back and tied with a coil of satin. Though the unguarded entrance radiated – nay, insisted welcome, the inside of the tent was pitch black, and Kirsta couldn’t see anything. It might not have been her brains that were getting her places in life, but she still knew better than to go barging into a strange, unlit confined space.
Disappointment dousing the wonder and mystique, Kirsta prepared to turn away. She had followed the light and found its source, precisely what she had set out to do. Now what else was there? She couldn’t go in; so, there was no going on, only going back. And she would have gone back, too. . . .
But just as she began to avert her gaze, a soung broke the pocket of stillness surrounding the tent.
“Ki – irst – ahh.”
It was a voice.
“Kir – irst- ahhhhhh.”
It was coming from in the tent.
Kirsta froze, all of her, except for her heart, which beat with an intense iciness. She knew she hadn’t imagined it, the same way you know you didn’t imagine five icecubes falling into your glass instead of three.
“Kirsta. Come in, dear. Don’t linger on the doorstep, where the wind blows fiercest.”
The voice, unlike other disembodied voices Kirsta had experience with, such as in horror films or ghosts on a haunt, didn’t sound eerie or threatening. It was clear and solid, without a hint of malice. In fact, it almost sounded pleasant. However, something about it was off. Almost as if the person speaking were . . . very weak.
Facing a paramount moment of indesicion for the second time that night, Kirsta, against the advice of speaker, did take the liberty of lingering before the door, frightened and unsure. The bizarre quality of this excursion was increasing dramatically, and she didn’t know how much more she could take. Whatever was inside that tent, whoever it was that wished her to enter, she didn’t know if she could handle finding out the what and who. But . . . could she possibly walk away now? When the tent knew her name?
She didn’t. Again, she fought her flight mode and stepped forward.
Walking into the tent felt akin to walking through foamed milk. Kirsta had taken a large step, because she couldn’t see where she was going and wanted to first feel around for anything that might trip her. Instead, she passed over the threshold in one fell swoop, the blackness of the door way feeling like the above mentioned foam milk, and suddenly found herself in a tiny, brightly illuminated room.
However, she had no time to marvel at how this difference was accomplished, or at the various mysterious looking objects that littered the area, matching the mysterious-ness of the exterior. As soon as her eyes readjusted to the light, they fell upon the middle of the tarp floor, and the man laying there. He almost gave her a heartattack, which, based on his appearance, was a possibility he had just recently suffered as well.
Outfitted in an overly big, flowy navy robe, the man was extremly skinny, knobbly, and wrinkled. Every inch of his coffee brown skin sagged with age, great black pools beneath his eyes, and a scraggly white beard hugged his chin. He was bald, though a floppy, elaborate beret lay about a foot away, too far for him to reach. Truthfully, he looked as though someone had pushed him over onto his back and he hadn’t the strength to get back up, so he simply had been lying there, for a while it seemed like.
If Kirsta’s reaction to this stranger’s existence was total shock, his was the polar opposite. When his sunken, blood-shot eyes alighted on her, standing in pajamas and sneakers, considerably paler than usual, a delighted smile split his face.
“Ah,” he gasped, stretching a claw-like hand in her direction. “You made it. I am ever so grateful. There’s not much time left.”
Kirsta, wrapped up as she was in the world of high school batonning and the mall, had never seen a dying man before. Yet, there could be no mistake. Right away, she knew this man, whoever he was, was not long for this planet.
“Please,” he wheezed, gesturing for her to draw near. “Please.”
It might have been pity, it might have been fascination, or it might have been out of obligation, but for some reason Kirsta found herself edging closer. And closer. She knealt beside him, suddenly a thousand questions popping into her brain, washing away her astonishment.
“Who are you?” she inquired, a tremble in her voice. “How do you know who I am? Why are you here? Did you want me to come here? Did – ?”
He raised his aged palm for patience, a cough guttering deep in his throat.
“Peace,” he whispered. “I know you must be confused. And for that I am sorry. I am sorry about so many, many things, and that you will stay confused for some time joins them. For there is no time for a proper explanation. How I wish there were, but there isn’t.”
Pausing, he hacked miserably and then took her hand. “Kirsta,” he moaned. “I don’t believe that fate is an unavoidable thing. I believe that it tries to chase you down and bang you over the head, but if you are clever enough you can, in fact, evade it.”
Briefly, is watery blue eyes met hers and he smiled sadly. “Ah, but, my dear, you never were very clever, were you?”
With a hand that shook visciously, he reached into the right pocket of his robe and pulled something out. Turning over her hand, so that her palm faced up, he lifed his other hand, quavering, and placed an object in hers, curling her fingers around it. Drawing back with an exhausted gasp, he lay back down on the ground, his face drained of all color. Weakly, he regarded her with tranquil eyes and a slight, final shake of his head.
“Such cruelty to be thrust into a position of ignorance,” he whispered. “May it not last long. I leave you all that you see, though what will help you most is what you now hold. Humorous, isn’t it, that the purpose and the plan be one and the same?”
”What?” Kirsta managed to choke out, her heart hammering. “I – I don’t under- understand . . .”
But already the man was staring beyond her, his chest falling still and the windows to his sould glazing over dully. The man, whoever he had been, whyever he had stopped, was gone now.
Stunned, Kirsta could feel her own breath hitching, her own eyes smarting for the loss of a human she didn’t know and now never would. Wiping away a straying tear, she looked down and unfurled her had to see what she had been given.
There, hard and cold against her taut, white skin was a glass vile about six inches long, an ornate pewter stopper at one end, shaped like a face swallowing a flower, a star, and a bird.Emily Kinney
“Some things were meant to be in sets,” Kirsta had explained to her. “Like drums, or flatware.”
So, discomfort wasn’t to blame. Later, when she had the time to look back and wonder, Kirsta could not actually recall the reason why she woke up, unprompted. But she did.
Her eyelids slid back uncerimoniously, revealing enormous, dialated pupils surrounded by clover green rings. A mishapen lump sat directly in her line of vision, and when she slammed her lathargic arm down on it, it proved to be a pillow. Not one of the throws, but a respectable pillow just the same. Groaning and rubbing her porclin forehead, Kirsta rolled onto her back, annoyed at being awake. Reaching out blindly, her hand found her tiny, cheapest-they-had alarm clock and brought it to her face. 12:07.
“Ullllgg!” she grumbled, flinging it back with revolt. Twelve oh seven at night was a time for insombiacs and those saucy individuals who liked late shows. Not for her. Not when ther was school and baton and her complection to think about.
Unable to determine what had roused her, Kirsta, in turn, rolled her eyes and then her body, snuggling back down into the luscious blue and green sheets. But, before she could shut her eyes once more, a flicker alerted them to the far wall of her room. There, floating as inconspicuously as a fly in someone’s lemonade, was an oval-ish sort of light.
Kirsta blinked. It was still there. She squinted. It didn’t disappear.
“What the . . . ?” she whispered, slowly propping herself up on one elbow. Chestnut hair, straight and silky with tending, fell like drapery over her shoulders and down her back. One of her favorite assets, her collar bones, stuck out as she hunched closer to the edge of the bed, her brows wrinkling in confusion.
The light remained where it was. It did not waver. However, it did seem to glow.
How long she stared at it, reassuring herself that she was really awake and that it was really there, Kirsta did not know. Not too long, though, because her arm started to ache from holding her up.
Shoving aside the blanket, Kirsta lowered her bare, bird-boned feet to the floor, her gaze never leaving the light. Standing up slowly, as if she were afraid she’d spook it, she tentatively walked towards it. It didn’t move. Stretching an arm, she brushed the spot with her fingers, but felt only wall. Sheetrock and interior paint. The glowing oval did light up her hand, though, making the typically pale skin a warm yellow, almost honey like.
Still frowning, only now with curiosity, Kirsta looked behind her to see where the light might be coming from, and saw her window. Her window overlooked the edge of a woods. She used to play there when she was younger, and full of free-spirited emotions and musings, but those were days long passed. It had been quite some time since it had even touched her thoughts.
Quickly, yet being careful not to make any noise and alert her fellow house-dwellers, Kirsta glided to the window, her eyes darting back and forth between it and the light on her wall. Looking past the glass and into the inkiness of the night, Kirsta’s breath froze in her throat. There, in the midst of the bark and tree trunks, was another light. Well, probably the same one, only travelling through the foliage, it’s source somewhere amid the trees.
Kirsta stared, mesmerized. What was it? Not a flashlight. It would have jiggled or something by now. Not a camp fire. Not a lanturn. Surely, there wasn’t anything that could make it shine so far and strong, especially with so many obstacles in the way. What on Earth was it?
Curiosity and a long-burried sense of adventure now overrode Kirsta’s reasoning. She could have gone back to bed, yes, but the light still would have been there on her wall, teasing her, haunting her. She couldn’t stare at a mystery all night. She’d go crazy.
Thoughts of tomorrow and what the consequences might be for sneaking out evaporated from her mind, a rush of adrenaline washing away her weariness. Tiptoeing to her beauru, she pulled out some socks and a bra, since wandering through the woods at night just screamed bra to her. After all, she really wasn’t a kid anymore. Slipping on a pair of sneakers and a zip up hoodie, she crept to the door, double checking that the glowing, golden light was still hovering there. It was.
Getting out of the house proved to be easier than she had anticipated. Being so far on the outskirts of town did occationally have it’s advantages. Such as, her father hadn’t invested in the pricey, automated alarm system that all the other fathers had. A deadbolt was good enough for him, particularly since he was a man who considered the best kind of security to be an oak baseball bat. This almost crossed Kirsta’s mind as she slid back the deadbolt, but only almost. Thankfully, everyone was sound asleep. Once on the outside, the night air surprisingly warm and inviting, Kirsta eased the front door shut again and took off around the house.
Scurrying up to the woods, she eagerly looked around for the light, and saw it. Gaze locked on it, Kirsta took slow, measured steps towards the treeline, suddenly well aware of what she was doing, and perhaps maybe she should try for a little caution. Not that anything too unsavory lived in this wood, the worst just an occational groundhog. But, still.
It almost felt like the woods swallowed her when she entered, but after a quick look over her shoulder at her house, sitting there in the dark, familiar, welcoming, always going to be there if she wanted to go back, Kirsta shook off the feeling and began walking.
She followed the light through brush and dips in the ground and all kinds of trees. Birches and maples and pines, all looming way up over her head, and yet not intimidating at all. Kirsta didn’t feel scared. The trees seemed friendly, almost as if they were happy to see her. It was so warm out, the air alive with the sound of crickets and peepers, that Kirsta couldn’t help but feel perfectly safe. And besides, the light kept her company.
For a while she journeyed, huffing just a little as she trundled through undergrowth and gradually becoming aware that she, Kirsta Sevaan, was roving through a forest in the middle of the night, instead of being tucked in bed, resting up for the next day. Further more, she was chasing after a light that probably was just some nut trying to contact the aliens. What exactly was she thinking?
However, before her common sense could return and force her to go back the way she had come, something else caught her eye. Up ahead, the trees came to an abrupt halt, because there was a clearing. The light was also getting brighter. Larger.
Her mental chalkboard wiped once more, Kirsta headed for the clearing, green eyes wide. As she emerged from the cover of the treetops, her mouth bobbed in awe. There, in the middle of the carpet of soft, long grass, was a tent.
Of course, ‘tent’ might be too commonplace a word for it. ‘Tent’ is typically used to describe the canvas-walled lean-to things people camp in, or the huge, hold-a-city striped forts erected at the circus. Kirsta didn’t know who had put this one up, but they were certainly not camping or from the circus. It was small and circular, its plush sides purple, orange, and blue swirls, as was its pointed roof. Gold, tasselly trimming hung all around where the walls and roof met, with various object dangling from thin chains every yard or so. And then, crowning it like the star on a Christmas tree, was the source of Kirsta’s excursion: A vibrant, dewy, raindrop-shaped lanturn that sat atop the point on a rod. As she approached, Kirsta could make out ornate designs adorning the lanturn, which might have been the size of a street light.
Of all the explanations Kirsta had conjured in her head, this didn’t even come close. As stunned as she was, somehow she managed to keep walking, though her footsteps were much smaller now. She circled around the mysterious, incredibly out-0f-place tent, giving it wide berth. The oxygen around her was quiet now; all the insect life and swifty sounds made by the breezes through the leaves had died away.
The intricate lanturn up above illuminated the tent enough for Kirsta to make out and appreciate the details in its fabric, as well as its ornaments. Baffled, not just at its majestic appearence, but at the fact it was standing there at all, Kirsta paused just to gape at it. Who had put it there? And why there, of all places? In the center of a nondescript forest that was only still around because developers hadn’t taken notice of it yet. Just what was so important about here? And of course, the final, most crucial question: What was inside?
Both causion and curiosity burning within her intensely, Kirsta continued surveying the tent at a distance, until she finally arrived at the opening; the mouth, as it’s been called by some. It’s door was nothing more than a flap of the luxurious fabric, and it been drawn back and tied with a coil of satin. Though the unguarded entrance radiated – nay, insisted welcome, the inside of the tent was pitch black, and Kirsta couldn’t see anything. It might not have been her brains that were getting her places in life, but she still knew better than to go barging into a strange, unlit confined space.
Disappointment dousing the wonder and mystique, Kirsta prepared to turn away. She had followed the light and found its source, precisely what she had set out to do. Now what else was there? She couldn’t go in; so, there was no going on, only going back. And she would have gone back, too. . . .
But just as she began to avert her gaze, a soung broke the pocket of stillness surrounding the tent.
“Ki – irst – ahh.”
It was a voice.
“Kir – irst- ahhhhhh.”
It was coming from in the tent.
Kirsta froze, all of her, except for her heart, which beat with an intense iciness. She knew she hadn’t imagined it, the same way you know you didn’t imagine five icecubes falling into your glass instead of three.
“Kirsta. Come in, dear. Don’t linger on the doorstep, where the wind blows fiercest.”
The voice, unlike other disembodied voices Kirsta had experience with, such as in horror films or ghosts on a haunt, didn’t sound eerie or threatening. It was clear and solid, without a hint of malice. In fact, it almost sounded pleasant. However, something about it was off. Almost as if the person speaking were . . . very weak.
Facing a paramount moment of indesicion for the second time that night, Kirsta, against the advice of speaker, did take the liberty of lingering before the door, frightened and unsure. The bizarre quality of this excursion was increasing dramatically, and she didn’t know how much more she could take. Whatever was inside that tent, whoever it was that wished her to enter, she didn’t know if she could handle finding out the what and who. But . . . could she possibly walk away now? When the tent knew her name?
She didn’t. Again, she fought her flight mode and stepped forward.
Walking into the tent felt akin to walking through foamed milk. Kirsta had taken a large step, because she couldn’t see where she was going and wanted to first feel around for anything that might trip her. Instead, she passed over the threshold in one fell swoop, the blackness of the door way feeling like the above mentioned foam milk, and suddenly found herself in a tiny, brightly illuminated room.
However, she had no time to marvel at how this difference was accomplished, or at the various mysterious looking objects that littered the area, matching the mysterious-ness of the exterior. As soon as her eyes readjusted to the light, they fell upon the middle of the tarp floor, and the man laying there. He almost gave her a heartattack, which, based on his appearance, was a possibility he had just recently suffered as well.
Outfitted in an overly big, flowy navy robe, the man was extremly skinny, knobbly, and wrinkled. Every inch of his coffee brown skin sagged with age, great black pools beneath his eyes, and a scraggly white beard hugged his chin. He was bald, though a floppy, elaborate beret lay about a foot away, too far for him to reach. Truthfully, he looked as though someone had pushed him over onto his back and he hadn’t the strength to get back up, so he simply had been lying there, for a while it seemed like.
If Kirsta’s reaction to this stranger’s existence was total shock, his was the polar opposite. When his sunken, blood-shot eyes alighted on her, standing in pajamas and sneakers, considerably paler than usual, a delighted smile split his face.
“Ah,” he gasped, stretching a claw-like hand in her direction. “You made it. I am ever so grateful. There’s not much time left.”
Kirsta, wrapped up as she was in the world of high school batonning and the mall, had never seen a dying man before. Yet, there could be no mistake. Right away, she knew this man, whoever he was, was not long for this planet.
“Please,” he wheezed, gesturing for her to draw near. “Please.”
It might have been pity, it might have been fascination, or it might have been out of obligation, but for some reason Kirsta found herself edging closer. And closer. She knealt beside him, suddenly a thousand questions popping into her brain, washing away her astonishment.
“Who are you?” she inquired, a tremble in her voice. “How do you know who I am? Why are you here? Did you want me to come here? Did – ?”
He raised his aged palm for patience, a cough guttering deep in his throat.
“Peace,” he whispered. “I know you must be confused. And for that I am sorry. I am sorry about so many, many things, and that you will stay confused for some time joins them. For there is no time for a proper explanation. How I wish there were, but there isn’t.”
Pausing, he hacked miserably and then took her hand. “Kirsta,” he moaned. “I don’t believe that fate is an unavoidable thing. I believe that it tries to chase you down and bang you over the head, but if you are clever enough you can, in fact, evade it.”
Briefly, is watery blue eyes met hers and he smiled sadly. “Ah, but, my dear, you never were very clever, were you?”
With a hand that shook visciously, he reached into the right pocket of his robe and pulled something out. Turning over her hand, so that her palm faced up, he lifed his other hand, quavering, and placed an object in hers, curling her fingers around it. Drawing back with an exhausted gasp, he lay back down on the ground, his face drained of all color. Weakly, he regarded her with tranquil eyes and a slight, final shake of his head.
“Such cruelty to be thrust into a position of ignorance,” he whispered. “May it not last long. I leave you all that you see, though what will help you most is what you now hold. Humorous, isn’t it, that the purpose and the plan be one and the same?”
”What?” Kirsta managed to choke out, her heart hammering. “I – I don’t under- understand . . .”
But already the man was staring beyond her, his chest falling still and the windows to his sould glazing over dully. The man, whoever he had been, whyever he had stopped, was gone now.
Stunned, Kirsta could feel her own breath hitching, her own eyes smarting for the loss of a human she didn’t know and now never would. Wiping away a straying tear, she looked down and unfurled her had to see what she had been given.
There, hard and cold against her taut, white skin was a glass vile about six inches long, an ornate pewter stopper at one end, shaped like a face swallowing a flower, a star, and a bird.Emily Kinney
