Emily Kinney's Blog - Posts Tagged "writing"

For all those who daydream and are not caged by reality. Together we rise above the mundane and stale, and combine forces to eradicate monotony and mediocrity. United are we who search for beyond, stand for creativity, and reject conformity. Empowered by inspiration, we march forth, hand in hand, an army of originals. Nothing can detain us, for we are driven by love, bred for imagination, and fueled by whimsy.

Emily Kinney

She opened her eyes. She couldn’t help it. Yes, she remembered the warnings; the insistance, the logic and reason and concern behind the inhibiting words. Just one glance, and all would be undone. If her lids spread open, they would never close. And in turn, she would never return. Because she wouldn’t want to. All of this echoed within the walls of her mind, but the echoes grew fainter and fainter, receding back into the hallowness that swallows up all responsible reasoning and task. Temptation swelled and prodded and stoked her, until she could bear it no more.

Her pale, velvety eyelids popped wide open, revealing the vibrant blue of her irises, magnified by the pulsating water. At first all was murky and blurry at the edges. She quailed as a trailing, thin shape appeared beside her, but she quickly recognized it as her hair. Brown and long and swirling in the water, tickling her face and along her bare arms. The next thing that came into focus was the fluttering white of her gown. They had insisted that she wear the most comfortable thing she owned, possibly something that was so light and soft that she wouldn’t even realize she was wearing it. So she has chosen her summer nightie, the one that she had bought too big by accident and had zero hope of ever gaining enough girth to fill out. When she stood, it hung loosely from satin straps on her shoulders, feathering out about her body like it could float away at any moment. And now, suspended in water, it truly looked as though it was trying, except that she anchored it.

Perhaps if she had only observed these two rather unextraordinary things and then had hastily shut her eyes, she might have been all right. No pernament damage would have been done. But, no. She strayed on. Blinking, her eyeballs cool and not smarting at all, she lifted her vision from her eddying, ethereal garment. Tilting her head back, causing her hair to balloon around her face, she looked up at the surface, not five feet above her. The last fretting echo gasped its last in the back of her mind, reminding her not to let her mouth open. If she hadn’t heard it and minded, she might have gasped.

She could see them, the lights. They were on the other side of the surface, bursting and popping and darting about, the flow of the water warping their shape. All sorts of colors, some she could never have imagined existed, exploding for miles in all directions. Their brightness permeated the water, making the depths glow all sorts of shades. On and on it went, as if they were keeping time to a tune only they could hear . . . that only they knew about. It all entranced her. She couldn’t stop staring, her limbs shifting unconsciously in the water, the tube in her arm knocking gently against her wrist. But she didn’t notice. She was unaware of anything other than the lights. Or whatever they were. Whatever was doing that.

It was beautiful; beyond that. It mesmerized her, it beckoned her while warning her to stay where she was, for she simply didn’t know; it stole her. Maybe at one point she had belonged to herself, and to her physical form and mumblings of her brain and tears of the end of rough days. But now that was no more. She now belonged to whatever was up there. A soft joy blossomed inside her, leaching into ever inch of her cells. In a last effort of purpose, she made sure her mouth was tightly sealed as she smiled. And she smiled hard. She beamed as much of her own happiness as she could up at what had given her such bliss.

And maybe they saw it, for they seemed to respond. The flashes increased in speed, as if encouraged. Their color and vibrancy enhanced, as if they were delighted by their effect on her. The bounding, dancing lights skipped across the surface of the water with something like renewed determination. Like they wanted to please her.

Languidly lifting a hand, disturbing both her hair and the tube, she waved at the lights. In reply, they exploded in a flurry of sparks. Laughter tumbled about in her chest, but could not get past her lips. Maybe she’d had a past, a beginning, and maybe she’d meant to have a future. But not anymore. It was all gone. All that was or would ever be was now. The world, the universe, everything that ever had mattered or ever would matter or had the potential to matter existed in the space between her and the spectacle above the water.

She had not listened. She had thought she would be able to, since she had spent so much of her life being a listener and an obeyer. Honestly, she had considered an order like Keep Your Eyes Shut to be very simple and easy. Something that she wouldn’t have to worry about following. But, she had been wrong. She had failed. But this fact did not matter to her.

Contentment and wonder and all things lovely filled her as she floated on her back, so close to the surface and yet so far. Somewhere in her, in the place where things still had meaning and decision, she knew that she would never reach the surface. That there was something preventing her from moving, from propelling herself in any direction. But even this wasn’t a concern to her. She didn’t mind in the least not being able to join the preternatural activity above her. All she wanted to do was watch and feel.

She could vaguely hear cries of alarm and demand, all skating across her eardrum. “Shut your eyes! Shut your eyes!” But if she didn’t focus, they became less and less distinct, until it was as if they weren’t there at all. Smiling up at the wavering lights, she let herself forget about the voices, forget about the tube and her dress and why she was there. Soon, she even forgot about her.

Emily Kinney

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Source: via Emily on Pinterest

Emily Kinney

The world is unique during the switch from night to day. Early morning carries with it its own look and smell and feel. She knew. She, by now, was very well aquainted with all of these.

At this point, she was quite familiar with the sensation of the blanket sliding off her body, bunched off to the side like a downy cliff, and her feet, sockless, touching down on the cool floor by her bed. The quiet brush of clothing being removed and replaced was now routine, as was the cold metal of the doorknob as her fingers and palm encircled it. At first, it had made noise when she turned it, but now she was seasoned and could exit and enter in silence.

And then, of course, there was the curtain of early morning air she encountered upon stepping out of the house. It always wrapped around her face like a mask, invading her pores, urging all her senses awake. This, she always welcomed, and even looked forward to. It provided that extra boost of alertness, and when she inhaled, it scrubbed at her lungs, refreshing her from the inside out. Whatever sleep might have lingered disappeared right then. She was free, aware of everything surrounding her and what came next.

Next, was leaving the house behind her, her naked feet alighting delicately on the dusty gravel of the front yard until reaching the dewy plushness of the lawn. Who knows why the morning weeps, scattering its tears across bent green stalks and drooping leaves. Perhaps it is in joyful anticipation for the approaching day, and all the possibilities it holds.

The lawn carried on for a good five minutes, the grass well trimmed and carpet-like, until stopping abrubtly at the long grass, just as green, but wild with growth. Black-eyed Susan and Queen Anne’s Lace stuck up throughout in lovely unobtrusiveness, and together the flowers and grass swayed harmoniously in the breeze. As she walked, yet again, while another dawn unfolded, through this medly, yet again in this direction, she had to be much more careful of where her feet landed.

It made the going slower, but by now she had mastered her timing. Sifting through the uncut fields was just one more thing incorporated into the schedule. As the early morning light stole up from the horizen and illuminated the clouds, bathing the world in a gentle array of golds and rose-colors, her skirt, white and cottony, swished against her legs. Occationally, long grass blades and stringy Queen Anne’s lace would find its way up and swat at her bare skin, but she hardly noticed.

Her eyes, and her attention, were in front of her, scanning the distance, as the land gradually rose. She was searching for what always first appeared to be a skinny line. But it grew bigger, extending both ways for miles and miles. It was a fence. The closer she got to it, the less she stared at it. Now her eyes lay partially on the fence, and partially on what lay beyond.

The fence itself was comprised of two narrow wooden slats suspended between posts. The wood was gray and splintered from exposure to the elements. Unprotected, and unable to protect itself, the world had done a number on it. Running in no longer taut lines between the slats and across the top was barbed wire, loose and rusting, its glory days forgotten.

How well she knew this fence! It had always been there, as a marker, a divider, and an indicator to “Stop Here”. This counted no matter which side of the fence it was. And she was on this side.

So, she came to a stop, a safe six inches or so away from it, afraid that going any closer would mean that she was actually there. Her back straight, mouth set, and eyes squinting, she gazed over at the other side. There, the same overgrown green grass stretched on, sloping down and down to meet the banks of a small pond. It was shaped irregularly, with patches of cattails and ferns growing in tufts by its edges, its surface sparkling with the golds and pinks of the new day. Not far away grew several oaks, a trail winding amid them.

And she waited. She waited, knowing why, picking distractedly at the weeds all around her. She waited, forcing the desperation to stay low in her chest, willing it away, to not exist. But it did. However, she could ignore that it did. She had been doing it for a while now. She was almost good at it. But not quite.

Her eyes stayed on the pond, occationally snapping to the trees, her chest rising and falling evenly, because she made it be even. If she stopped focusing on being calm, on only half believing that she was really there, then her breathing would change. She waited.

But not for long. Never for long.

He came. Seemingly out of nowhere, he came down the trail through the oaks, his strides wide and sure. His sudden appearance made her catch her breath, her hands falling still.

Their ages might have matched, maybe him overtaking her by a year, but no more. Tall and tanned like ripened wheat, with a long, narrow torso and lean, toned arms and legs. His hair was wild, dirty-blonde, and did what it pleased. He wore a holely tank top that once was white, and scraggly jean shorts, fraying badly just above his knees, the remains of scraggly jean pants. Scruffy, bare-footed, and in a hurry, he made his way over to the pond, a netted contraption in one hand and a look of absentminded consternation on his face.

From where she stood, on her side, her own bare arms hanging listlessly, she watched as he squatted beside the water. Carefully, he released the thing he was carrying into the water, keeping it attached to the land by a length of twine tied about a rock. It floated a ways before sinking. Standing up and scratching vigorously at his flat belly, he took off along the shore. After travelling almost to the other side, slipping on rocks and shoving aside rushes, he finally waded into the water. Once up to his hips, the rest of him tensing from the chill, he flexed his arms and dropped like a stone, the water swallowing his head in one large ripple. Two seconds later, he emerged, gasping loudly and letting loose one emphatic whoop. A smile tugged at her lips.

On her side of the fence, she watched, unmoving, sad, and longing. The breeze rustled her uncombed hair and thin dress. She tucked the loose strands behind her ears, swallowing hard, staring hard. Had the fence not been there, would she continue to stand there? It was the ever present question. How long could she bear to feel from afar? But she had no answers. Emily Kinney

Once, there was a little boy whom at birth was given a very long name. Jedidiah Demitrius Remington. His parents, Mr. and Mrs. Remington, named him this because they thought that if their son had a big, impressive, important sounding name with lots of syllables, it would inspire him to grow into it. So that one day he might also become big, impressive, and important.
And so they called him Jedidiah Demitrius Remington every day, even thought he was just a little boy with large eyes and a habit of giggling when things were serious.
The only person who saw him for who he really was, was his Grandmother Patrice. She was a smart, sensible, I'll-do-it-myself sort of woman, who firmly believed that giggly six-year-olds shouldn't be addressed as Jedidiah Demitrius Remington. And so she simply called him Jed.
One day, Jed was over at his Grandmother Patrice's house, helping her pickle the cherry tomatoes she grew in her garden. They stood in her earthy work room at a wooden counter, yellow sunshine invading in beams through the dusty windows. Jed stood on a bench, Patrice tall at his side. She let him fill long glass jars with tiny, round, bright red tomatoes, along with a few basil leaves, and then she would pour in the brine. The brine was a mix of water, salt, sugar, vinegar, and black pepper berries, and, given enough time, would cause the tomatoes to pickle. Then she screwed on the cap and let Jed wipe the jar dry before moving on to the next one.
Suddenly, the phone rang in the next room.
"Jed," said Patrice, "I must answer this. I won't be long. Please do not touch anything until I get back. Do you understand?"
"Yes, Grandma," said Jed.
Patrice then stepped into the house, leaving Jed all alone.
At first, Jed made funny faces at himself in the gleaming glass of the jars, enjoying the way his cheeks flattened and his eyes elongated.
But one jar was still only half full. It occurred to Jed that he could fill it up to the top all by himself. He thought about what Patrice had said; not to touch a thing. And he had said that he wouldn't. So, he shouldn't.
But, he then thought that maybe Patrice would be so proud of him, she wouldn't mind.
Standing up on the bench, Jed plopped the tomatoes into the open mouth of the jar, until it was completely full. He smiled, greatly pleased with himself.
Next, he knew, was the brine, then the cap, and finally the wipe down.
Reaching for the pitcher of brine, his six-year-old muscles strained to pick it up. Wobbling, he tried to pour the brine over the tomatoes, aiming as well as he was able. But it was just too heavy. It slipped out of his hands and fell on the jar.
Both the jar full of cherry tomatoes and the pitcher of brine then fell to the floor with a spectacular crash, breaking into a thousand pieces. Tomatoes bounced in all directions and the salty, vinegary water splashed everywhere, soaking the old floor.
Jed stood frozen on his bench, shocked and horrified and very scared. For a second, as was his habit, he started to giggle. However, he stopped when he thought about what Patrice was going to say when she saw what he had done. She was going to be so mad at him! And maybe even say things like,
"You didn't listen! You made a mess! My beautiful tomatoes! How could you do this to me, Jed? How do you expect to grow into your name if you do disgraceful things like this? Clearly, you don't deserve such a name. I'm going to talk to your parents about giving you a different, less noble one!"
Just the thought of her certain fury made Jed's lower lip tremble. What if he jumped down and hid from Patrice? But, no, he couldn't. There was too much sharp, broken glass all over the place, surrounding his bench. He was trapped.
Abruptly, he heard the sound of Patrice's shoes, and his heart raced. He couldn't even giggle.
Walking in, Patrice at once saw the disaster on the floor and gasped, her hand flying to her mouth; then to her heart; then to her hip.
"Jed!" she cried. "What happened?"
And Jed, unable to bear it any longer, burst into tears.
"It was an accident!" he sobbed, and told her how he was trying to pickle the tomatoes all by himself, but the pitcher was too heavy.
Patrice listened closely, and then asked, "Why didn't you obey?"
Jed's whole mouth shook.
"Because," he whispered, "I wanted you to be proud of me, and think I am growing into my name by doing big, important stuff. I'm so sorry. I'll never do it again. Please don't tell mommy and daddy to change my name."
For a moment, Patrice said nothing, and just stared at his large, pleading eyes. Finally, she said, "Jed, obeying IS big and important. I told you not to touch anything to keep you safe. Not because I cherish my tomatoes. I cherish you. I am just happy that you didn't get hurt."
Jed stared at her, his eyes swimming with unshed tears.
"So," he croaked, "you're not mad?"
"I am a little disappointed," said Patrice. "But I'll get over it."
"You-" he stammered, "you're not going to ask mommy and daddy to change my name?"
"Of course not! Why would I do that?"
"Because, I disappointed you."
"Oh! I see," said Patrice, smiling. "You think I want retribution for your actions against me?"
Jed, though puzzled, nodded.
"Well, no, Jedidiah Demitrius Remington. I, in no way, wish to get even with you."
"Why not?" he asked in wonder.
"Because, my dearest little Jed, I forgive you."
"Forgive?" repeated Jed.
"Yes, my love, forgive. It is what Jesus wants us to do for each other, because He will always forgive us when we've been wrong and are very sorry about it. You know that you've done wrong?"
Shamefully, Jed nodded.
"And you are very sorry?"
Vigorously, Jed nodded again.
"Then I forgive you. Just remember this day the next time you're tempted to disobey."
"What if I forget by accident?" Jed asked. "Will you forgive me again?"
Patrice's lips twitched. "Yes, love," she said. "I will. Again and again. As many times as it takes."
"Why?"
"Because, that is what Jesus does for us."
Patrice then found a broom and rescued Jedidiah Demitrius Remington from where he stood on the bench. He helped her clean up, and afterwards they sat on her couch and ate pickled cherry tomatoes smeared on toast.
The End.