i wandered through fiction to look for the truth

Words Written So Far: 3,369 

Favorite Selection:

Just beyond the tree line, little Lizzie shifted in her seat on the donkey’s back and squared her thin shoulders, forcing her slightly curved spine to straighten slightly.  “Come on, Amaratha, let’s go,” she urged the donkey in the faintest of murmurs, and pressed her heels into the animal’s sides, urging it forward.  Tom’s hand’s anxiously and convulsively gripped the donkey’s rein, but Amarantha impatiently jerked her head free and began picking her way toward the tree line. 

Tom, realizing that the donkey was displaying more pluck than he, was determined not to be outdone.  Slinging his pack over his shoulder, he bounded after his family, and with a sickening lurch of his stomach, joined them in the somewhat dubious shelter of the trees. 

Outlook: Positive and hopeful. So far most of it is backstory, but I’m trying not to analyze that too much and just let the story flow.  My Inner Editor is a noisy, interfering little jerk and I’m having a hard time trying to get it to shut up. The desire to just enjoy writing the story and the desire to do justice to the story are at war within me. 

I’m going to my first write-in tomorrow! I’m so excited!!! 

!!!

iloveyoujhutch:

If you do not reblog this you are in fact lying.

I haven’t been on the computer since Thursday… I feel very strange and rather lightheaded. :) 

Fear is the mask we all wear. Dread of discovery keeps pieces of us from surfacing, buried treasure chests of love and talent and humor and sensitivity so well and deeply hidden that we may never be able to retrieve the best parts of ourselves. We have learned too well that to be transparent is to be infinitely fragile. When we allow the world to look straight through us, when we offer ourselves up for perusal, we inevitably end up smeared with fingerprints and webbed with cracks, until one good gust of wind leaves us in shattered pieces. We take our refuge in opacity, collecting secret identities like winter coats. We live bundled up, suffocating under the weight of the alter egos we have come to depend on, and the result is that we do not know one another. We do not even know ourselves. It is so easy to believe the lies we ourselves have woven; they sit more easily in our stomachs than the bitter pill of reality. We have traded in the gritty truth for the glamorous falsehoods, and have forfeited our right to see the beauty in others. By doing this, we have made beggars of ourselves, leaving ourselves scrounging in the dark for whatever beauty we can find. Opportunities for genuine loveliness pass us by every instant, and we do not have a way to unearth the truth because we have thrown away our shovels and let our arms grow weak and limp, because the act of knowing was too hard. There is a dark underside to every angel’s snowy wings, and glittering mica imbedded in the unforgiving rock of the hardened criminal’s soul. Visibility is not the determinant of worth, for the most valuable and precious metals and gems in this world are invisible and intangible. We carry them within our souls and even though we feel them weighing us down, some of us beggars never dig deeply enough within the rich veins of our interiority to realize that we have been fabulously wealthy all the time. 

his touch strikes across her skin like lightning

leaving her eyes blind and her soul screaming

every nerve ending scraped raw

the memory of the pain still fresh and sizzling in her blood

he burns the house down around her ears

and leaves her choking on the ashes of her childhood dreams

the power in his hands is deadly

and the love in his heart is tinged with darkness

he doesn’t know another way.

there is no other way.

they were born for this darkness.

she was born to eat his heart

and he was born to strip the flesh

inch

by

inch

from her bones. 

I can’t.