Emily Kinney's Blog, page 7

Moon Dance

The lush night pressed in and cushioned the world. The rushes shivered and the water lapped at the stalks. Tiny hands and teensy feet gamboled about the lily pads. Sparkling skirts and shimmering threads of hair bounced and flounced. Mother Moon, up above, so precious, so generous, peered down with a gentle smile. Beseechingly they danced, batting their eyes and twirling their hips, willing her to pour her fortunes down to them.

Emily Kinney

Author Emily Kinney, the queen, on her throne of books.

“I’m light years,

Ahead of my peers!”

Interview with Emily Kinney

Interview with author Emily Kinney.

Julia Widdop takes us inside the mind of author and storyteller Emily Kinney, author of The Island of Lote and creator of the Fueled By Whimsy brand.

Jed and Patrice

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.

Fantasy: A Moral Conflict

It is nearly indisputable that the most popular genre of literature today is fantasy. It has evolved past its origin to take on new sub-genres and modern aspects. Based on the bestsellers of the 20th and 21st century, fantasy has proven to be the most valuable thing you can write. Whenever a book that revolves around magic, a mystical race of creatures, or an incognito group of spell casters appears on the market, there is little doubt that it will sell exponentially. Many writers are inspired by both the numbers and the stories, and attempt to write the next fantastical phenomenon. This is why the market is so flooded with vampires, street-savvy teen wizards, and paranormal werewolf romance thrillers. Not to mention the cathedral-like fantasy aisle in bookstores that house novels displaying rolling magical landscapes and bleeding unicorns on the cover.

Personally, as an author and a reader, fantasy is my favorite genre to both read and write. I love the fathomless possibilities fantasy offers. In magical worlds, every day rules are bent and broken each minute, or disregarded entirely, and for someone who has never been too keen about reality, this can be very enticing. But, it goes beyond that. Imagination isn’t utilized as heavily anywhere else as it is in fantasy. The colors are allowed to be brighter, sounds can be stranger, humans aren’t alone in their quest for supremacy, impossible acts occur such as eating a cloud or a tree walking and talking; fantasy, to me, is one huge, vibrant, joyous whirlwind of total freedom. Whenever I write anything even remotely connected to the real world, there is always that burden of ensuring that it comes off as “realistic”, and while that is a rule and completely understandable, not to mention essential in certain stories, I often find it such a drag.

Writing fantasy offers limitless opportunities to unleash the deepest confines of your imagination. Making it all work and blend together is required, but the restrains are basically eradicated. It’s blissful; it’s euphoric; it’s stupendous.

However, despite my passionate adoration for fantasy, there have been many a time where I’ve struggled internally with the concept of writing and even reading it. This might come off as a surprise, since it’s just a genre of literature, right? It’s harmless. Why be worried about something that is harmless? It can even be beneficial; stretching the mind and opening up the heart to possibilities that it previously had been closed off to. Fantasy can liven the spirit, and instill within children the idea that though there are dragons, they can be defeated. For me, whenever I look at any whimsical or fantastical imagery, I can feel life and excitement rushing through my limbs and into my heart. There is a reason I named my brand Fueled By Whimsy, because whimsy a big part of what fuels the creativity of my soul, heart, and mind.

Again, if I am so closely linked with fantasy and all it encompasses, then why do I experience moments of doubt? And not just mere doubt that can tickle at you, but ultimately can be brushed aside and forgotten. No, more like doubt that cripples and mires you, making you afraid and depressed.

It’s funny, because as an author, I’ve never really dabbled in any controversial subject matter. The closest I’ve come is writing about two teens marrying in my book The Island of Lote, which was hardly delivered in a realistic setting. However, if you attend any kind of youth group or prayer meeting and bring up the subject of reading books that contain magic or monsters, you will absolutely find yourself deep in conflicting thoughts and feelings, strongly thought and felt.

Along with being an author, I am also a Christian and am deeply in love with Jesus. My church, the Seventh-Day Adventist church is far from perfect, seeing as how it is on earth and nothing is perfect on earth, but we try to follow the Bible as closely as possible. As long as you are studying, obeying, and preaching the Bible, you are studying, obeying, and preaching the word of God. As in, this isn’t something man said, it is what the Creator of the universe said. The Great I Am, the Almighty King, Ultimate merciful Judge, Giver of eternal life, and Source of all good that has ever existed. He spoke, man scribed, and now we try to listen.

And the Bible has some very specific things to say about magic.

Biblically, magic is clearly stated to come from the Devil. There are many passages mentioning witches, wizards, necromancers, and sorcerers. It says in Revelation, among other places, and with no frills or sidestepping, that sorcerers, adulterers, and the sexually immoral will not inherit the Kingdom of Heaven. Notice, that they are all stated in one sentence, because to God sin is sin and there are no levels or exceptions.

These verses will strike fear into anyone wishing to write or read fantasy. Often times, they are presented in sermons, but never fully explained. To truly understand why witches and wizards are mentioned in the Bible at all, when we consciously just regard them as fictionalized beings, it must be made clear that the supernatural exists. The Bible is not trying to dictate and regulate what we entertain ourselves with (although it can definitely help us make those decisions). Most of the time, it was addressing events that were going on in real life. If you believe in God, you must believe in the supernatural. If angels exist, then so do demons. You cannot pick and choose what supernatural things to accept based on what makes you feel the most cozy and comfortable.

Okay, so we have the supernatural, but in addition to that we also have good and evil. If you look closely enough, you’ll discover that whenever a supernatural act occurs in God’s name, such as Peter and Paul healing the crippled man at the gate, it is called a Miracle. But when something supernatural happens because of Satan, it is mostly referred to as magic. Over time, we have abandoned this line of categorizing, but in Biblical times it was really important.

It actually is still really important today, because the same activity is possible. You pray hard enough and a man destined for death can be healed, just like people can call upon spirits to a glass dome over an Ouija board. Because there is only good or evil in the world, the supernatural can come from either one of two sources: God or the Devil. Wizards are reviled in the Bible because in Biblical times they performed feats by asking Satan to give them powers. Even when they didn’t realize it, they were seeking abilities and receiving them from the scourge of the universe. Being a wizard or a witch basically meant you were aligning yourself with the Devil by funneling his powers, without knowing he was merely using you, as he makes a pawn out of everyone he can. Humans themselves are not supernatural. In real life, that only comes from one of two places. Can you begin to understand why it says they won’t inherit Heaven?

Heaven is a place for the repentant who love Jesus. And Jesus states that He will provide for us and to trust and have faith in Him. If you are casting spells of protection that won’t work because the Devil doesn’t want you protected, or carving talismans for fertility because you want children when the Devil couldn’t care less about you being happy, that doesn’t exactly show that you are letting go and trusting God. It says that you are trying to take over and ensure it all your own way. Even if you think you can divide it into either “white” or “black” magic, it is still something that separates you from Jesus by giving you a way to be self-reliant. And, of course, it won’t work. Jesus said irrevocably that He is, “the Way, the Truth, and the Light.” Anything else claiming to be is nothing short of an affront to His glory, and a straight-up lie.

So, if magic, and all that is associated with it, is so explicitly forbidden in the Bible, then why do we tolerate it in literature? That has been an ongoing debate ever since books started appearing on shelves. Even today, in our modern, carefree, anything goes culture there is a prevalent and vicious argument about reading stories containing magic, witches, wizards, and so on. Christian groups famously picketed the Harry Potter novels when they first started gaining immense popularity. Harry Potter was the Devil. Children were sent to school with strict instructions not to join in reading circles if it was a Harry Potter book.

Eventually it all died down, especially when many of them actually read a few of the books. But when the protesting was at its peak, most people thought and expressed that they were overreacting. “It’s only a book,” was their rebuttal. “If you go out and actually try to preform magic you’re an idiot.”

If you’re influenced by fiction, you’re an idiot? Is it okay to talk about witches and wizards as long as they’re in a book? Is there actually an existing line between what is okay and what is dangerous?

These have been questions that have plagued me throughout my writing career. I am in a close relationship with God, but I also love fairytales. Am I in the wrong?

When I was little, I used to play pretend that I was a witch, and would make up spells and whittle my own wands. Being young, I wasn’t exactly taking the book of Revelation into account. I just wanted to have fun. As I got older and strengthened my relationship with God, I started paying acute attention to sermons at my church. And a consistent theme was taking down shows with superheroes, movies with witches, and books about kids who use magic. I remember feeling like something was chewing on my colon. By liking and writing fantasy, was I sinning?

This bothered me horribly. Several times, I entered periods of paranoia, anxiety, and depression, because I felt like my passion in life was making me an enemy of God. I would be scared, nervous, wanting to be in denial, but knowing it was too important not to be. Jesus wants to transform your whole heart and mind, and the fact was that fantasy resided in my heart and mind. It didn’t take up all the space, but it was still there.

These periods were extremely difficult for me; I felt strained and scrutinized, and had a sense of impending doom. I felt like the rebellious daughter who wants love so badly from the One she loves, but couldn’t receive it because she also loves something else.

In the Bible, it says that you can’t serve two masters, and this couldn’t be truer. One is either going to eventually take precedence over the other, or you will get completely burned out from trying to compensate for both. And, if the masters are enemies, what does that make you? Somewhere in there, by some way or other, you will become a hypocrite.

This was a gigantic fear of min when I would go through those times of misery and doubt. Was I being a hypocrite? Was I not serving my King by wanting to write fantasy novels? Was I trying to take an active part in leading people astray? Did my career desires add to the sin currently polluting the world?

As you can imagine, I was racked with worry, yet despite my fears, I still wanted to write those books. They were good stories, had great characters, and enlivened my imagination, which, correspondingly, rejuvenated my heart. I was so upset by this dilemma, that at one point I called up one of my high school teachers to ask for advice. I attended a Christian school my whole life, and so I knew that whatever she told me would be from the perspective of a loving believer. She was also a fan of Lord of the Rings.

The conversation I had with her was extremely valuable. It helped me start to think and formulate my own thoughts on the subject. It nearly calls into question all forms of fiction, and the intentions behind what is written. Both C. S. Lewis and J. R. R. Tolkien were heavily involved in their churches, wrote spiritually represented characters, and they both wrote fantasy; hugely popular and timeless fantasy to boot. There aren’t many people who haven’t heard of The Chronicles of Narnia, and yet C. S. Lewis wrote other books like The Screwtape Letters, detailing a fictionalized viewing of humanity by a demon, and Mere Christianity, making an apologetic stand for Christianity. (Apologetic as in the debater.)

Obviously, Lewis loved his God, but had no qualms with writing fantasy. Did this mean there was a formula that allowed you to enjoy fairytales while also praising Jesus in church?

The more and more I mulled this problem over, the more I started to mold my own stance on the matter. Others will certainly have their opinions. However, seeing as I must life with my own body and mind, I have to decide my own.

Without delving too deeply into the specifics, fiction is meant to be just that: Fiction. It starts and ends with imagination. And imagination was given to us to help our minds and spirits grow. By giving a child, or anyone, a book, you are handing them transportation; a whole other world clasped in their fingers. That, in itself, could be considered magical, yet hardly supernatural.

I have discovered that I don’t mind writing about magic and magical people as long as it is in a story. Stories are here to make us think and feel, not to convert us to the occult. If a story ever does do that, than either it was written wrongly, with the intent of subliminally doing just that, and can’t truly be considered fiction, or the reader conjured his own thoughts from reading it and pursued them on his own. Nothing can be done about the resulting actions of the reader. That is their own responsibility, just as the writer’s intent behind the story is their responsibility. Fairytales shows that dragons can be defeated; fantasy shows that with enough heart and courage and help from an ethereal-like wizard, an evil ring can be destroyed.

Fantasy can be just like anything else in the world: If I let it come between me and my Savior, it has ruined me, just like anything else that comes between us. If I cease to keep it fiction, and drag it over into real life, then it is dangerous. It gets sticky when too much emphasis on magic is put into stories, such as it being a driving, connecting, and enabling Force. (Yes, I am aware I will get bombarded for that.)

But, what is fake can be left behind. It can be useful; inspiring, motivating, enlightening, bringing insight and new perspective, as well as revitalization, which are all wonderful things. However, when it is used for other things, or distinct import is employed where it shouldn’t be, that is where is can go bad.

I suppose the moral conflict of fantasy will always be with me as a writer, but that is fine. It will help me stay focused on what I want to convey and what I don’t. There are definitely views out there that negate my own, but the fact remains that one, God knows my heart, and two, His power triumphs over all. I don’t fear my own fiction anymore.

Jed and Patrice

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.

 

The New Neighborhood – First chapter of The Island of Lote

THERE ARE TWO very different types of people in the world: Individuals and followers. Individuals are their own person, and are exactly who they want to be. Followers try to take on the image of the individuals, and do things exactly like them. Individuals don’t follow the crowd, unlike the followers, but create their own image and don’t care what people think of it. Some of the individuals and the followers are rather rebellious. Some choose to be that way, while others simply ended up that way, due to pressure. While most rebellions aren’t very much appreciated, there are times when they can be quite useful. They can help keep people out of trouble, or help teach them to stand for what they believe in, which you don’t see all that often.

One very good-rebellious person in the world was sitting on a car seat one warm afternoon, hugging her knees, and was staring out a window. This person was a fourteen year-old girl, named Milo Hestler. And she was distraught. At least her stomach was. Speaking of which, the distraught feeling in Milo Hestler’s stomach increased to an almost unbearable amount as she gazed out the window of her parent’s car. They were driving through a neighborhood called Shady Ally. Though it seemed to Milo that it was more like a city than a neighborhood, but her parents delclared it a neighborhood, so it remained that. She also didn’t know why it wasn’t spelled with an ‘e’.

The reason it seemed more like a city was because there were no houses. The only living quarters in Shady Ally were apartment buildings. Dozens of them, all lined up next to each other on each side of the road. That road was the only road there, stretching leisurely onward, making it look more like an actual alleyway. Each apartment building was about thirty to fifty stories high, and they took up most of the sky view. The sun was rarely ever directly over head, but always more to the side, casting shadows from the buildings into the street. So in a way, it really was like a shady alleyway.Why the good people who inhabited the place wanted to use “ally” instead of “alley” was a mystery. An ally is supposed to be someone you trust and rely on. If your ally is shady, it probably isn’t a wise idea to continue the relationship.

But that was a very small reason why Milo was feeling nervous. Like any kid moving into a new home, she was worried about adjusting and making friends. The first home she lived in had burned down when she was little, forcing her family to move. She had many friends and relations there and was heartbroken to leave them, especially when she moved into their new house and found that nobody wanted to be friends with her. She moved three times after that, and each time she never made any more friends. She also lost contact with her friends and relations from her first residence.

Continuously finding herself alone, Milo began to fear that she would never have another friend again. She was wrong about that, of course, but for the time being, she begrudgingly sat scrunched in the back seat of a 2002 Camry.

“We’re here!” her mother’s voice sang out as they braked in front of 711 Shady Ally.

“Ooooh! Goodie!” Milo snapped. “Let’s hope we all don’t puke with joy!”

Milo occasionally got creative with her words. Her father turned around in his seat and glared at her.

“Sorry!” she said, lowering her eyes. “It’s just that, how do we know that this time we’re actually ‘here’?”

“Oh, Milo,” her mother groaned, grinding the heel of her hand into her forehead. “Can’t you just try to be a little happy? I mean, we’ve been driving around all day, all yesterday, and all of last week. We didn’t drive all that way not to be ‘here’.”

It was Milo’s turn to groan.

“Fine!” she mumbled. “I’m a little happy. At least we can get out of this car.” She opened her door and got out.

“That’s the spirit, hon!” her father said heartily, swinging his door all the way open.

Whenever Milo’s father wasn’t mad at her, he called her “hon”.

“You’ll see,” he continued. “Things will be different here. You’ll make plenty of friends and get used to living here like that.” He snapped his fingers. “It’d be impossible not to. You don’t even need to leave the building for anything! Your mom and I will have to leave for work of course, but you won’t ever have any reason to go outside again, hon!”

Milo stopped in her steps, which were leading to the trunk of the car.

“What do you mean?” she asked, her stomach not settling any. Both her parents grinned at her.

“We wanted to surprise you,” her mother said. “The building we are going to live in, 711, is one of the neighborhood buildings in Shady Ally.”

“It’s an entire system of living inside one place, hon,” her father said. He pulled two suitcases out of the trunk and handed both of them to Milo’s mother.

“It’s huge!” she exclaimed, obviously sold on the idea long ago. “The building I mean. The idea of an entire neighborhood inside one place isn’t very popular at the moment. I don’t know why, it seems wonderfully convenient to me. But, as I was saying, the building is gigantic. It has everything you need inside it. First and foremost, a school -”

“A school!” Milo broke in, her eyebrows up. “Right in an apartment building?”

“Yes,” her mother said. “Not only that, but also a Wal-Mart and a miniature mall. That’s all in the basement. The school is the entire thirty-eighth floor. There are restaurants too, like Burger King and the Olive Garden!”

Milo scrunched up her nose. Despite the fact that she couldn’t believe that all this was crammed into one building, she had to sneer at the thought of any restaurant. The family had been on the road for two weeks, eating nothing but fast food. Therefore, just the thought of Burger King made her want to throw-up. She didn’t really mind the Olive Garden, but it was still a restaurant and restaurants weren’t something that Milo approved of.

Milo preferred to make her own food. She had been interested in cooking ever since she first saw an oven. She kept a large notebook filled with recipes that she had copied from cookbooks. Every time she would find a recipe that she liked, she would copy on a blank page of the notebook, slowly compiling a complete cookbook.

She took this notebook everywhere with her, along with the two other most important things in her life. All three were in the backpack her mother handed to her. The other two were a diary, in which she was writing down her life, and her little radio and headphones.

Without these things, Milo figured she’d die or suffer from some sudden madness. She would write in her diary whenever something interesting in her life happened, such as her house burning down or moving three times. And she would listen to her radio often, in order to relax and momentarily forget about her troubles. She kept extra pens and batteries with her in case one or the other ran out or got lost just when she desperately needed them.

Turning away from the car, with her backpack on her shoulder and a suitcase in each hand, Milo stared up at the building in front of her. Tilting her head back, she could just make out the roof of the building, and much to her surprise, she saw the crowns of trees sticking up from it.

“Uh, Mom,” Milo said. “What’s that?” She pointed her left suit – case at the roof. Her mother peered upward.

“Oh, right!” she said absently. “There’s a garden on the roof.”

“Really?” Milo said, perking up. “That sounds cool. It’s been a while since I’ve been able to be alone with nature. This place might not be that bad after all!”

“Not bad?” her father said, striding towards the doors, laden with luggage. “It’s the most fantastic place in the world, hon! And the rent’s not bad, either. What more could you ask for?”

“Friends?” Milo asked shyly. Her parents grinned at her. Her mother put her arm around her shoulder and guided her to the doors, her father holding one open with some difficulty.

“You’ll see,” her mother said confidently. “Things will be dif – ferent here.”

Of course things weren’t going to be, but Milo didn’t know that. Almost smiling, she and her parents strolled into the lobby, which was decorated with tinsel.

Milo’s mother walked up to the tinsel strewn desk and found the bell. Three rings brought a woman in from another room, tottering on heels far too high.

“Hello?” she said, looking around as if blind. She then reached into a skirt pocket and pulled out a pair of eye-glasses. She slid them on and jumped back in surprise, not helping her precarious balance.

“Oh! My! I mean, hello.” She smiled broadly. Milo’s mother smiled too.

“Hi there,” she said. “We are the new tenants. You must be the Lobby Secretary?”

Personally, Milo had never heard of a “lobby secretary” before, but the woman immediately said, “Oh. Yes. I mean yes! Of course I am! I’m Miz Ricca, and you must be the . . .”

Not waiting for a reply, she made her wobbly way past them to the desk, where she began to flip through a registry book.

“Hestlers?” she finished, squinting at a spot on a page.

“That’s right!” Milo’s father replied robustly, grinning.

“Well, welcome to 711 Shady Ally!” Miz Ricca said, bringing out a set of keys and handing them to him. “Here are your keys, you can make as many copies as you want, and I look forward to getting to know each one of you!”

“Well, thank you!” Milo’s mother said sweetly. “Let’s start right now, shall we? I’m Sherrill-Jean Hestler, and this is my husband, Earnest, and our daughter, Milolantalita.”

“Actually, it’s just Milo,” Milo piped up, not knowing where on Earth her mother had come up with “Milolantalita”.

It most certainly was not on her birth certificate. She had heard the story often enough of how, at her birth, they had wanted to name her Mila, but her father’s hand writing had caused the ‘a’ to look like an ‘o’, and it got recorded that way. Though they both claimed that they liked it better that way, Milo always had a feeling that her mother was rather miffed that her daughter had a boy’s name.

Her mother nudged her hard and said, “Now tell us your name. Surely there’s more to it than ‘Miz Ricca’.”

“Oh! No! I mean, no. I’m sorry, dear,” Miz Ricca said apolo geti – cally, seemingly startled. “I’m not allowed to tell you or let you use my first name. It’s a Lobby Secretary thing, and if I make an exception for you than I’ll have to make an exception for everybody! And believe me, there’s a fair number of young men in this place who would love to call me Reba! Now then, if you need anything I’ll be here, and if you get lost, there are maps all over the building.”

“Reba Ricca?” Milo muttered to herself.

“And if you have any questions,” she added, “don’t hesitate to ask.”

“Yeah,” Milo said, jumping at the opportunity. “Why is Shady Ally spelled without the ‘e’?”

Miz Ricca’s lips became a line. “What do you mean?” she said casually.

“I mean,” Milo said clearly. “A – l – l – y spells al-i. Alley is spelled a – l – l – e – y.”

“Oh,” Miz Ricca said, looking away. “That. Well, it does read alley, only they thought it would look nicer without the ‘e’. It’s still the same thing.”

“But,” Milo insisted. “It says al-i. Not alley.”

“Yes, it does.”

“No, it doesn’t.”

“Yes, it does!”

“Thank you, Miz Ricca!” her father said abruptly, well aware of his daughter’s legendary stubbornness, and wanting to actually reach their apartment some time that day. “You’ve been very helpful. By the way, I like what you have done with the lobby.”

Miz Reba Ricca glanced around, distracted and pleased. “Really? You do? Well, thanks. It’s one of my own designs.”

Milo, deciding to let the issue go, took in her surroundings and couldn’t quite see where the word “design” came in. Tinsel was strewn all over the carpeting, all over the furniture, and was glued onto the walls. Milo looked up and saw it dangling from the ceiling in great clusters. The only thing it didn’t seem to be covering were the lights, which shone down on it all, making the room look very bright and glittery.

“I think it perks the room up a little,” Miz Ricca said.

“A little?” Milo thought.

“The elevators are over there,” Miz Ricca said, pointing to a hallway on the left side of the desk. “I can see that you have quite a lot of luggage, and elevators are always better than the stairs. Nobody in the building ever really uses the stairs, so we had to install extra elevators. We might have removed the stairs entirely, except for those pesky building codes. Escaping fire and such. I’d help you with your luggage, but I’m afraid of hurting my back. I’ve not much practice with large, heavy objects; the most I’ve carried around is papers, pens, keys, and tinsel.”

“That’s quite alright, Miz Ricca,” Milo’s father said, hoisting several bags onto his shoulders. “We’ll manage to manage just fine!”

He began to lead the way to the elevators. Milo followed with her mother, but something inside of her told her that it’d be better for her health to take the stairs.

That thing inside her was her conscience, and she was so often arguing with it, that she had personified it and called it Bob the Conscience. That particular day, the argument inside Milo’s head, went something like this:

“You know, it’d be better for your health if you took the stairs,” Bob the Conscience said.

“I know, but our apartment is on the forty-sixth floor. It’d be too tiring to go all that way with all this luggage,” Milo replied as she stepped into the elevator. Sometimes, Milo was so into the conversation that she spoke out loud. But she was careful not to when she was around other people.

“You can handle your luggage,” Bob the Conscience retorted. “It’ll just make it more challenging. Besides, after being cramped in that car all that time, your legs could use some stretching. It will make you feel energized and happier, too. You should take the stairs.”

“No,” Milo insisted. “By the time I got to the forty-sixth floor, my parents would have already moved in and started dinner. The elevator is faster; look, we’re already on the thirty-sixth floor! And you wanted me to take the stairs! Ha!”

She heard Bob the Conscience sigh.

“Yes, Milo,” he said, patiently. “It is faster, and it is useful, if we are on a schedule. But if you keep on riding elevators, you will start to get fat!”

Milo chuckled. “That would do me a world of good,” she remarked. She looked into a mirror at herself, which was an easy thing to do because enormous ones lined the walls of the elevator.

She didn’t like what she saw.

She could name the things she didn’t like about herself from head to toe, starting with her hair. It was a rich, dark brown that hung down past her shoulders. But Milo thought it was too dark and, like all the girls of today, she wanted highlights but didn’t have any.

Moving downward, her next complaint was her body. She was very skinny for her age and it showed. Two full weeks of eating fast food, without any exercise, hadn’t made her an inch rounder. Milo’s arms were spindly and long, and she didn’t think she had much muscle on them. Nevertheless, whenever she needed to push bullies away, she always found the strength she needed.

Her legs didn’t really matter much to her, but she still found them far too slender for her liking. Indeed, she often referred to them as “tooth picks”. Not that anybody could tell, for she often wore baggy jean cargo pants.

Her face didn’t contribute much because it was always sur – rounded by her hair. It was thin, but not pinched. Sure, it wasn’t filled with chubby cheeks, but at least she didn’t look like she was starving. That wasn’t the reason it was normally hidden by hair. The reason was that Milo couldn’t find a way to keep her hair at bay. Usually, she would have it up in a ponytail to keep it out of her face, but her mother hated that look, and would always tell her to let it down. Therefore, Milo usually couldn’t quite see what was on either side of her.

“It gives you a shy look,” her mother had told her when Milo tried to complain about it. She had tried to explain to her mother that the look didn’t suit her, because she wasn’t a shy person, but her mother wouldn’t listen. Milo found that happened a lot.

“It would do me a world of good,” Milo repeated softly.

“What’s that, dear?” her mother asked.

“Nothing,” Milo said quickly.

“No,” her mother said. “I’m sure I heard -”

“Here’s our floor!” Milo’s father sang out as the elevator stopped with a ding. “Our new lives start the minute we walk out of this elevator, ladies.”

Of course, for Milo that wasn’t true, but she thought it was, as she followed her parents out into the hallway and up to a door that said “B-1107″. She didn’t know that it would merely be a push in to her real new life.

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http://www.emilykinneyauthor.com

Dear Alex,

Dear Alex,

You don’t know me.

This isn’t a letter from a loved one, friend, or even an acquaintance. I am a no one, a nothing to you. Before reading this, in your world, I did not exist. Even though, you have seen me.

We have met, and yet we haven’t. We hang, suspended, in that weird vacuum between “interacting” and “meeting”. We have spoken, without talking. You have handled my money, touched my purchases, and have wished me a good day seventy-four times. And each time I reply with, “You, too”, when I really want to say more.

I don’t know how you got the job at Morning Son’s Market, but I know when you started working there. It was in December. I remember because I was hauling a turkey in one arm. There was still two weeks until Christmas, so I was the only kook in the place lugging around a ten pound bird, and the aisles were next to empty. It was around two in the afternoon, which is when I get out of work. As I was walking towards the line of checkouts, I scanned the cashiers, looking for a familiar face. Instead, I saw yours.

It’s not hard to tell when someone is new. They stand awkwardly, as if their shoes are very uncomfortable, and their eyes dart around, trying to memorize a thousand new sights. You were twitching in anticipation behind the register, and fingering different buttons. I wish I could say that when I first saw you, my heart leapt. But, that would be lying. And, though it sounds super romantic, I don’t want to lie to you. Truthfully, the first time I saw you, my reaction was to think that you looked so much younger than the other cashiers. I thought, “He could be my age.” I still don’t know if you are.

So, I went in your line. I set down my dinner with a huff, and said, Hey. Briskly; not caring to start a conversation. You said Hey back. I remember thinking you had a deep voice. But, that was all. I didn’t really see you then. It struck me that you were young and had a deep guy voice. However, I was in too much of a hurry, and didn’t get a chance to look at you.

Not that day, anyway.

It was okay, though, because I go to Morning Son’s market all the time. I always seem to need something. Plus, I just like food. So, I had many chances to encounter you. And I started to recognize your face, because I finally let myself look. Brown eyes, shaggy brown hair, a ring between your nostrils. These details are what first broke through. They didn’t mean much to me right away. I just saw them; recorded them in my mind. But, over time, I began to See more. Your lips became soft and plump, your hands large and chapped; dark circles beneath your eyes, your navy work shirt was a little baggy. And I finally found your name tag.

Alex.

I soon caught myself staring over at you when I was in another cashier’s line. Some days, I slowed down in my car to watch you laugh with other employees on break outside. I did; I do, and I don’t really know why. . . . . It might have been because you chuckled.

I wonder if you remember this. A few months ago, I was buying a bag of cat food. It was the cheapest I could find without resorting to the store-brand, which my spoiled, princess of a cat won’t eat. Even still, when you rung it up with the tax, I let out a loud groan, forgetting you could hear me. And you chuckled. Probably, because you also forgot that I could hear you. Because, when I glanced up, after freezing in embarrassment, you were looking down, examining your hands, smiling.

Why did you have to chuckle, Alex? It couldn’t have been that funny. But you did. And ever since then, you lodged yourself in my mind. At least, you started in the back, like a stranger sneaking into a party and loitering by the walls where the crowd can’t see anything. Yet, you were still in. And, slowly, you crept forward. Day by day, visit after visit, until you occupied the front part of my mind, usually reserved for three things of immense importance. Up until you, it had been: 1. Work, 2. My looks, and 3. The future. Now, however, it is as follows: 1. My looks, 2. You, 3. Now.

Now has become very crucial to me. Because Now is where you are. I think about you so much. I wonder about you, too. Because, I know so little. It’s gnawed at me, this ignorance. It’s kept me wide awake at night, tempting my imagination to fill in the blanks. But . . . it doesn’t help to. I’ve slowly discovered that I want the truth; the truth about you. Your real-life-details. It struck me one night, lying awake, your face burning in my mind, that I want More.

And, Alex, this scared me so bad.

I don’t know why, either. You didn’t used to be scary. I used to go through your line without batting an eye, and now I make excuses to go shopping just to see you. But I don’t know what to say to you. I used to relish in the tiny, polite, cashier-customer conversations we had; they gave me glimpses of you. However, they soon weren’t enough. Soon, I wanted to talk to you longer than ten seconds. The problem was I didn’t know how.

The very thought of saying more made claws sink into my stomach. My throat swelled up, my tongue dried out, and my heart scurried into a corner of my chest. So, I didn’t say More. But, Alex, I didn’t stop wanting to.

For almost three months now, I’ve fought with myself. Again and again I go through your line, just to see your face, your brown eyes, so tired some days, so alive others, looking up into mine. All day, I think up little things to say to make you smile. Alex, your smile thrills me. And every single time you cash me out, I yearn, ache, to unleash the words that I’ve kept pent-up for so long. They clash and clang around inside me all the time, driving me crazy. I pace in my room and mumble to myself at work, wishing I could speak them, wanting to have the guts. But, over and over, I didn’t. I let you wish me a good day, and I returned it again and again, not letting it go further. Why not? Because, Alex, I was scared.

I was scared that my words of More would have no power. I was frightened that you did not see me the same way I saw you. Maybe you don’t. But . . . I am writing this letter because I am asking if whether or not you could.

Yes, a letter. It’s amazing I can even muster this. Honestly, it might have been worse. I could have never mentioned it at all. I could have bottled it up, me and what I feel, forever. I know it’s ridiculous. We’re strangers, really, and how can you feel so much for a stranger? I don’t know, Alex, but I do. All I can say is we all start out as strangers. We don’t have to stay that way.

Please understand that I’m shaking while I write this. I know that a letter might look like a version of cowardice, but it’s actually my way of being brave. Lately, I’ve been under the conviction that I must start being brave. In general. At work, at home, in life. And that includes doing something about you. So I’m writing you a letter, to say More. To say that I always lean in slightly to smell your cologne, and that I want to reach out and touch the wispy part of your hair, and that my heart hurts on the days you look so tired you might fall over. That your laugh makes my tummy flip, and I love that you wear Converse too, and that I have imagined us going on a date over a thousand times.

It’s been a long time since I’ve had a highest hope, and now I do. I’m so terrified of what you’re going to think when you read this. I’m sorry that this was all I could do. Yet, at the same time, it will be a miracle if I can force myself to deliver it. It will be even more of a miracle if you actually read it; and if you actually respond. Maybe that’s what I’m most scared of, Alex; you saying More in return.

But . . . please do.

Signed,

The girl with the fish purse you like so much.

P.S.,

My name is Emmy.

 

 

 

For every time I’m forced to look at a girl rolling around in panties:

I want to do more, be more, than what is expected from women today. What’s driven into our brains is that we must be worth looking at, or lusting over, in order to matter, in order to be worth noting. Well, I’m here to say, screw that. My mind’s more luscious than any organ I pocess. My values shine brighter than the sparkle of my eyes or the gleam of my teeth. My heart’s more valuable than any pose I could hold. I want to be a woman of Substance. I want to stomp on the mold and make it shatter. I want people to be drawn to me without knowing why. I want to exude safety and understanding, and radiate strength and wisdom. I want to be a woman that the greats would be proud of. So no, my shirts don’t ride that low, and yes, I refuse to parade around in yoga shorts, and thank you, my own hair’s just fine, I don’t need extentions. I won’t hang off a man’s arm, but stand on my own, alone, until I find a fellow worthy enough to Stand Beside me.

The Lights Did Beckon

She opened her eyes. She couldn’t help it. Yes, she remembered the warnings; the insistence, 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 hollowness 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 permanent 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.