tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-38321465210977213492024-02-19T14:58:59.773-08:00AlonA blog of poetry, short stories, and life's little adventures.Flora Rosehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11129860971153949973noreply@blogger.comBlogger153125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3832146521097721349.post-53725440864547343192017-10-21T11:55:00.001-07:002017-10-21T11:55:32.692-07:00The DinosaurA dinosaur, he sits beneath<br />
A toppled chair, alone –<br />
Abandoned by a little boy<br />
For sake of ice cream cone.Flora Rosehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11129860971153949973noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3832146521097721349.post-79797571710872802132017-09-03T16:04:00.001-07:002017-09-03T16:04:16.628-07:00ForgettingForgetting stumbles in the dark basement,<br />
stifled in his too-thick sweater,<br />
playing an ever lengthening game of hide-and-seek.Flora Rosehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11129860971153949973noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3832146521097721349.post-50390948771415379292017-08-01T16:42:00.004-07:002017-08-01T16:42:53.960-07:00FriendI can’t breathe. The air I catch in scattered fragments enters my lungs sharp, cold, fast. My skin is hot.<br />
<br />
It’s not real.<br />
<br />
But I want to grab her hand and run, escape from the horror grasping at her ankles. It used to be her close friend, a boy. She trusted him, but obsession has twisted him, and he’s not even human anymore, not really, or maybe he’s all too human, all too real.<br />
<br />
It’s a story, and I know before the door opens that the hero will save her. It’s not real; it’s just a story.<br />
<br />
But I still can’t breathe. My eyes burn, but I can’t cry. I suck down water to douse the fire under my skin. I cry.<br />
<br />
It wasn’t real.<br />
<br />
My big sister finds me in our room, breathing too hard too fast.<br />
<br />
I brokenly tell her, the unreal and the real. She understands. It’s July, and she’s known since last September when one Sunday afternoon I sat on my bed, bawling, for an hour, until all of my emotion mixed with salt had streamed from my eyes, leaving me numb and tired.<br />
<br />
She waits until I’ve expelled most of my distress in carbon dioxide, pushed from my exhausted lungs. She distracts me, takes me to watch a show with her friends. She doesn’t like to be touched, but she lets me curl up against her.<br />
<br />
He used to be my friend, someone I trusted.<br />
<br />
I’m hollow again, numb.
Flora Rosehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11129860971153949973noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3832146521097721349.post-71766285248100611492017-03-23T16:58:00.003-07:002017-03-23T16:58:24.850-07:00Letter to BeesHello,<br />
<br />
As I sit in my backyard, bare feet nestled in soft blades of thriving green, the hum of your wings fades in and out while you take the time to visit one bloom and then another, pressing your faces into the little purple trumpets for a taste of early spring pollen. You wander inches away from my unprotected skin, leaving me to my own devices as I leave you to yours. We are both content.<br />
<br />
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<br />
I'm not sure if I was ever afraid of you, as little girls often are. Perhaps there were times I was worried by the small, quick insect capable inflicting pain that at times unexpectedly circled my head, but I recall holding still for the occasional sweat bee traversing my nine year-old arm. When my sister was stung beside Great Grandma's gooseberry bush, I was more fascinated than horrified. You've never stung me, except, of course, the time I stepped on one of you, which was entirely my own fault. Some days, when the sun warms my skin and you seem to be everywhere I turn, I rather wish I were more like Beatrix Potter, able to render you soft and intricate in watercolors. Maybe English bees are simply more willing to pose for portraits.<br />
<br />
Your friend always,<br />
KaraFlora Rosehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11129860971153949973noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3832146521097721349.post-87938831505453258782017-03-14T06:19:00.005-07:002017-03-14T06:19:51.235-07:00Press Room FlowersA gentle cross breeze meanders in and out of doors and windows while I work this morning. Unseasonably warm, but none of us are complaining. I bend the paper, letting this tame air ease between the pages. The stack drops briefly to the table. <i>Tap. Tap</i>. Pages settle into alignment. I slide them into the machine and tap them in place once more.<br />
<br />
“You ready, Toby?” I whisper to the machine.<br />
<br />
His motor continues rumbling his monologue, which I carefully interpret to be an affirmative.<br />
<br />
Leaning back from the safety sensors, I push both hands underneath the work surface, pressing twin buttons and holding them in place, while the blade of the machine slides down with a soft<i> swoosh</i> through the paper stack and <i>thunk</i> reaches its limit and <i>thunk</i> returns to starting position. I sweep the paper trimmings into the recycle bin beside me, thin ribbons of waste tumbling into their confinement. My process continues, repeating. Jog the paper into a neat stack. <i>Tap. Tap</i>. Register the paper in the cutter. <i>Tap. Tap</i>. A gentle but excited murmur. “Here we go, Toby!” <i>Swoosh. Thunk thunk</i>. Slivers of paper tipping over the edge and tumbling, tumbling down. Then gone, and I reach for the next section of paper, only to find I’ve finished already.<br />
<br />
“Thank you, Toby. I’ll be back soon enough.”<br />
<br />
My feet carry me across the press room floor along a weaving line between machines, paper stacks, and rolling tables to the bindery station, my own space in this planned chaos. Here, I perch on my rolling chair, old enough to have plastic wrap wrapped around and around and around the seat, trapping in the exposed orange foam. Here, I shape the brochures in careful thirds, pressing each fold into sharp lines with the tool in my hand. We call it a bone, and I cannot help but imagine the years of hands that have held it, tilted and pressed it into paper creases. The bones wrapped in their own skin strangely similar. In reality it is something akin to a tongue depressor but plastic and thicker in the middle because of the years of wear on the edges rubbing against paper. As I near the end of my brochure pile, I glance over to the clumsily made metal flower I taped upright on the desk weeks ago.<br />
<br />
<br />
The shrink wrap system had partly broken that day. The metal wire that heats to melt the plastic together was hanging down, a limp and partly severed appendage, when I went to package a finished job. I stared at it, the broken wire. It twisted at an odd angle, no longer straight, strong, and shining. “You poor, baby.” I rub my hand against the metal blue casing surrounding most of the system in an attempt at comfort.<br />
<br />
As a coworker clocked in for the day, I called her over. “Sarah, what do I do?”<br />
<br />
My comrade in arms looked at the wire for a moment, frowned, considered pushing it into place with the end of a pen, and finally said, “Let’s ask Kyle. He usually fixes it.”<br />
<br />
Kyle, a gentle man nearing retirement, smiled as he accompanied us to the heart rending scene, despite the inconvenience. “Sarah, could you unplug it?”<br />
<br />
“Sure.”<br />
<br />
He reached under the device and retrieved a cardboard box, two sides of which were labeled Shrink Wrap Parts in bold swoops of a Sharpie pen. Talking to us as he did so, he unfastened the old wire, blackened and bent. “I don’t know what this could be used for now. Probably something.”<br />
<br />
“We could make a flower out of it,” I offered.<br />
<br />
He twisted the pliers to the left. “Sounds like an art major thing to say.”<br />
<br />
I shrugged, watching him unspool the new wire while he continued in a conversation with Sarah which I can no longer recall. The shining strip of metal reached nearly from one anchor point to another, barely too short.<br />
<br />
“Here. Make a flower out of this.” Kyle handed me the failed wire.<br />
<br />
It rested with a gentle weight in my hands as so many sticks had throughout my childhood. I pressed and it bent without breaking, so I set about my task, bending and straightening, wrapping and twisting, until a flower as crude as a child’s fifth finger painting emerged, but a flower all the same.<br />
<br />
<br />
I reach out and gently touch the edge of one wire petal. Smooth and cold, it contrasts to the stacks of paper I’ve been handling my entire shift today. My shift. I should get back to work. The job ticket, this lovely orange sheet of paper with the standard instructions from above (that is to say, Amanda’s office upstairs), dictates that the finished brochures be packaged in three groups of one hundred, so I count. I count in piles of ten until each stack is ready. I slip them into thin plastic and melt the ends together to seal them in. I place them on a blue table to my left. Before I’ve even turned on the heat gun, I’m singing ballads again, and while plastic tightens around paper in reaction to the hot air, the Lady of Shalott looks out her window to see the water lilies bloom.Flora Rosehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11129860971153949973noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3832146521097721349.post-1662051766601417052016-11-06T20:23:00.003-08:002016-11-06T20:23:29.216-08:00In Which I Am Simply HumanWind and leaves sway their lullaby above my head as I slowly wake up. The cygnets have drifted back to their mother on the island in the middle of the pond, no longer waiting by the fencing that encompasses their world for me to hand them clovers that grow out of their reach. I hear them faintly muttering to their mother and other siblings as I stretch a little, eyes still closed. Music continues to play through my earbuds, one of which has fallen out of my ear and into the grass I rest on.<br />
<br />
<i><span data-reactid="168">The kingdom of the morning star</span></i><br />
<i><span data-reactid="168">can pierce a cold and stony heart. </span></i><br />
<i><span data-reactid="168">Its grace went through me like a sword </span></i><br />
<i><span data-reactid="168">and came out like this song. </span></i><br />
<i><span data-reactid="168">Now I'm just waiting for the day </span></i><br />
<i><span data-reactid="168">in the shadows of the dawn.</span></i><br />
<br />
Gray Havens' "Shadows of the Dawn." It's just after the song I was listening to when I drifted off. But has it only been the length of a song, or have I been asleep the whole album and it started playing again? I put the question from my mind and inhale deeply, the grass, dirt, pond, and gentle summer air, smell like sweet colors that fill my mind. The grass murmurs as someone leaves the concrete path and approaches. I know this pattern of steps, the soft chuckle.<br />
<br />
I stretch, smiling, and open my eyes. Seeing him smiling down at me, my own smile broadens. "Hi."<br />
<br />
"Hi." The laughter gracing his shining eyes tickles his voice as well. "Were you asleep?"<br />
<br />
"Not just now. I was thinking."<br />
<br />
"Sure you were."<br />
<br />
"I might have been sleeping for a while beforehand."<br />
<br />
He chuckles again, pulling a leaf out of my hair. "Let's get going, Silly Woman." Taking my hand, he helps me to my feet. <br />
<br />
<hr />
<br />
Evening autumn chills have wrapped themselves around my fingers like strips of cloth as I leave him at the door, worry prodding my heart with icy fingers. He's sick. Just a cold, but I still feel lost, unable to help him recover. Instead of going straight home, where I can make cocoa and wrap myself in a blanket, I wander along paved paths while the chapel bells sing songs. Eventually I make my way towards the glowing sunset. An illusion from the distance told me the sun had set the fog to a red glow, but no fog exists to greet me when I reach the cliff's edge. I lean on the fence and gaze down at the water, its strange surface a mix of dancing textures, waves that dissolve into the shore and ripples that resemble the wrinkles of a fluttering silk cloth.<br />
<br />
I drift away with the breeze, back up the path, leaving behind the people hammocking, chatting among themselves. When I am behind the library, I pause. We've sat in the grass here together, he and I, talking about various universes. This evening, I see something I have repeatedly overlooked when the grass was green and vibrant: a well worn path. Without consciously coming to a decision, I find myself following it. I place one foot at a time, not rushing myself when it's even a little steep. I've learned caution from a childhood of running through fields and walking along ledges beside creeks. I gently lower myself down large rocks similar to the those at the cliff point I just left. At the end, I stand on a flat slab that overlooks the lake below. I feel different here, more myself than work has allowed me to be in a while. There is no fence here. No fence to protect me, but none to confine me.<br />
<br />
I sit down, alone but for the occasional owl call and cricket symphony. The sun continues her near completed journey, settling ever so slowly behind the tree blanketed hills in the distance. As I trace senseless shapes and patterns in the red clay dust that covers the stone, I study the almost twinkling cities in the distance and the reflections of lanterns on the lakeside docks. Watching the water so late at night, I understand the writers who came back again and again to ink. It's so dark I can hardly imagine ever seeing through it clearly, but even as I accept the obsidian depths, remembering my mother's inks and pens with which she does not write, but draws, the words to paint the universe, I cannot help but notice how much clearer the reflection is in this black mirror. Eventually I take my camera out and try to capture a fragment, but none of the pictures satisfy me.<br />
<br />
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<br />
After a while, I return up the path again, find my way to my room, curl up with a blanket, and make cocoa for my roommate and myself. The night passes gently, and I fall asleep in a deep pile of blankets.<br />
<br />
The next day, I wake in a cocoon of warmth but manage to force myself to get dressed and out. I see him at lunch, still miserably ill. He eats quickly, and I walk him back to his place again. Again I wander to the cliff behind the library. Today, I notice a path that enters the trees. Curious, I follow it until I find a place to sit. There I build a small fairy house in the base of a tree. Inside, I place a sun-bleached snail shell. The rest of my time on the path, I take pictures. There's something about light that touches the human soul. So many stories from all around the world, and light is almost always a force or symbol of good.<br />
<br />
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<br />
Before I go back to my room again, I sit on the stone slab for nearly half an hour, staring out at the lake and surrounding countryside, far away but somehow close enough to see. Despite the chilly weather of late, I am warm in the sunlight, warm and content. Absentmindedly, I reach up and touch my hair. My fingers encounter a stowaway there, a yellow leaf. Its edges are jagged and must have caught in my hair while I was hidden away along the forest path. Although I am not certain why, I give it a gentle kiss before I return it to the trees.<br />
<br />
Standing, I stare out one more time at the vast segment of the enormous garden I am a part of. It's not the perfect garden, the Garden of Eden, but it's still a garden, brimming with life, beauty, and the fantastical. How wondrous. I brush the dirt from my jeans and sigh happily. Flora Rosehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11129860971153949973noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3832146521097721349.post-39814769907178230832016-09-21T18:17:00.001-07:002016-09-21T18:17:03.286-07:00Song of PolyphemusMy days were simple.<br />
Care for my rams and craft cheese.<br />
Simple. They were simple.<br />
<br />
My people are more<br />
than savage killers and thieves.<br />
They are more than you.<br />
<br />
We had a prophet<br />
many, many years ago.<br />
He spoke. We listened.<br />
<br />
He told me “Someday<br />
the man Odysseus, will<br />
steal your gift of sight.”<br />
<br />
This man I pondered.<br />
I considered and wondered<br />
whom this man could be.<br />
<br />
Strong? Of course he is.<br />
Impressive? Oh, he must be.<br />
Smart? Certainly so.<br />
<br />
But my life passed on.<br />
The prophet died, and his tales<br />
ebbed from memory.<br />
<br />
My rams. My kinsmen.<br />
These filled my days, and I was<br />
content in my life.<br />
<br />
You. You came and stole.<br />
You demanded I give more.<br />
You told lies, small thief.<br />
<br />
You and yours are not<br />
the same as me or my kin.<br />
Your blood is bitter.<br />
<br />
Did they deserve more?<br />
Was their leader truly good?<br />
No, Thief, you are vile.<br />
<br />
But you refused to<br />
lay down and die easily.<br />
You tricked me, Mortal.<br />
<br />
You filled me with wine.<br />
Bitter falsehoods you fed me.<br />
My mistake: I slept.<br />
<br />
Searing pain. My screams.<br />
You wretched worm of mankind.<br />
Oh, this white, hot pain.<br />
<br />
Have you had your eyes<br />
stabbed out with a burning stick?<br />
No. You have both eyes.<br />
<br />
You robbed me of mine.<br />
My sight. My dear brothers’ trust.<br />
You stole these from me.<br />
<br />
Taunt me. Shout at me.<br />
I hear you. Poseidon hears.<br />
He will avenge me.<br />
<br />
And these, my dear rams,<br />
I will tend with my last breath,<br />
but not near as well.<br />
<br />
Rest is my freedom.<br />
I dream and my eye still sees<br />
the pastures, the rams.<br />
<br />
You could never take<br />
everything from me, Thief.<br />
You can’t take my dreams.
Flora Rosehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11129860971153949973noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3832146521097721349.post-39035234381816231602016-05-02T12:22:00.000-07:002016-05-02T12:22:44.833-07:00Night Pondering<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<br />
<br />What lingers in the dark?<br />
What muffled horror?<br />
What passing chill?<br />
What monsters stand<br />
and wait<br />
and listen<br />
for coming feet?<br />
<br />
Warm breezes pass through screens.<br />
This, a whispered calling,<br />
a gentle summons,<br />
peaceful, humble,<br />
brings me,<br />
camera in hand,<br />
out.<br />
<br />
Far from fields of barley,<br />
late night coyote calls,<br />
star freckled sky,<br />
and solitude.<br />
"Safety"<br />
I exit<br />
and on sidewalk step.<br />
<br />
No roaring night life here,<br />
no drunken people,<br />
no speeding cars.<br />
Slam on the brakes.<br />
Stumbles,<br />
not of feet<br />
but souls.<br />
<br />
I wander,<br />
pause,<br />
and breathe.<br />
<br />
A yellow lamplight stands,<br />
glowing of long past,<br />
sad memories<br />
for which I was<br />
absent.<br />
<br />
Lens open,<br />
I gather together<br />
stray pieces of light,<br />
parts of shadow,<br />
and dissmissed colors.<br />
Now still<br />
memories<br />
trapped<br />
within.<br />
<br />
Illuminated trees,<br />
reflections on water,<br />
a lonely wooden bridge.<br />
How different<br />
the world is<br />
in obsidian hues<br />
with the faintest<br />
kisses of light.<br />
<br />
I pause and<br />
breathe,<br />
wonder.<br />
<br />
In the darkness of night,<br />
when fear writhes in hearts,<br />
fevered nightmares come<br />
from within me.<br />
Streetlights<br />
and<br />
glowing stars<br />
light the way<br />
Home.Flora Rosehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11129860971153949973noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3832146521097721349.post-88932076375445331302016-03-12T20:22:00.001-08:002016-03-12T20:22:02.338-08:00Of Weather, Piano, and Accidental Caffeine DependencyA year ago, I was a <a href="http://drakelingrose.blogspot.com/2015/03/raining-spring-in-which-i-am-polar-bear.html">polar bear</a> sliding across the icy terrain of my yard. This year, the weather has been just as temperamental, alternating between the usual freezing temperatures of early March and the warmth of late spring. I prefer the latter. Walking to work in the cold is never fun for me, but I do recognize the beauty of the cold, for if not for red tipped noses and ears, I might not remember to love the kiss of the warming sun on my cheek. On the days when the weather has been pleasant, I walk for about an hour. It's a learning experience in some ways. I'm able to examine myself apart from the constricting world of concrete and right angles, where I am just me. I have learned and been reminded of the following.<br />
<br />
<ul>
<li>Wild flowers in late winter make me laugh with joy.</li>
</ul>
<br />
<ul>
<li>I have a habit of addressing the animals I talk to as Beautiful. (No. They do not talk back.)</li>
</ul>
<br />
<ul>
<li>Finding an armadillo makes me ridiculously happy for some unknown reason.</li>
</ul>
<br />
<ul>
<li>Downhill was made for running down with reckless abandon.</li>
</ul>
<br />
<ul>
<li>God's magic and miracles are everywhere, from the enchanted threads of spiderwebs to the ground that supports the weight of my overflowing heart.</li>
</ul>
<br />
<ul>
<li>Outside heals wounds I don't remember I have.</li>
</ul>
<br />
When I'm not outside, I tend to be easily found near a piano, having finally begun learning to play this year. I've been a singer for years, but the piano has always held an enchantment for me. When I was a child, my mother would play piano in our house very rarely, but every time she did, I would hurry over to her as fast as my little legs would carry me. Sometimes, I would sit on the piano bench next to her until I couldn't make myself hold still any longer, but more often, I would dance, imagining a prince or just spinning in endless circles to the point that I either sat down or fell over from dizziness. She would play more often at my great grandmother's home, or my aunt would play. After they left that piano, I would scramble onto the bench and try to play like they had, my feet swinging in the air. Short, disconnected melodies would stumble from my finger tips, but as time went on, I seemed to create more dissonance than harmony, and I eventually left the piano to itself. Even my attempt to teach myself to play when I was in junior high was short lived.<br />
<br />
This past fall, I was brought back to the piano, largely by Wolfe. He was a new friend who one day mentioned that he was going to go practice piano, and on a whim, I asked if I could come listen. Eventually, I would regularly join him when he went to practice. As he learned on YouTube to play new pieces of slowly increasing difficulty, I sat on the floor in the corner of the practice room, my head leaning back against the wall, and the piano wrapped me in its familiar voice, singing its ballads and lullabies. Wolfe has told me that he probably would have eventually stopped practicing if I hadn't been coming to listen. Without him, I likely would never have considered trying once more to learn the songs of the piano. Currently, we're taking a beginning level class together, and I am loving it. I find myself increasingly fond of three four time, waltzes in particular, but other pieces as well.<br />
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<br />
I have officially fallen in love with the piano once more. My sister was apathetic as to this development. However, once I mentioned to her that I was hoping to eventually be able to play theme music from our favorite anime (in particular <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=4QLB6rx9F5Q">Mikoto Suoh's theme</a> from K Project), she took a sudden interest in my progress. I look forward to being able to play it for her eventually, but also to be able to play it myself, feeling the motion of the sound and letting it flow through me like electricity through wires.<br />
<br />
Also of recent interest, I ran out of my usual morning herbal tea in early January. Mornings, cold ones in particular, tend to be rather hard to face without a warm cup of tea. In the face of the void my herbal left behind, I utilized a box of black tea for the rest of the month. It wasn't too different until I simultaneously ran out of the black tea and gained more of my usual herbal. The Monday I switched back was merely groggy at first, but eventually I became convinced that either my skull was attempting to liquefy or some kind of heavy gremlin was doing its best to wrap its jaws around my head. By evening, I had a low level migraine that was barely fended off by the caffeine in soda. The next day was marginally better, but still painful. That Wednesday, I decided that if my skull was going to throw a temper tantrum, I was not going to give it what it wanted. Thus, I have quit caffeine all together, including black teas and most sodas. I'll likely return to my previous ways in a few weeks (oh how I miss my usual dark sodas and the occasional black tea), but I don't plan on drinking black tea every morning anymore. Coffee is an absolute no. I refuse to start that habit. No matter how lovely it smells, I cannot abide the taste.Flora Rosehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11129860971153949973noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3832146521097721349.post-57722873976735108062015-12-20T19:31:00.000-08:002015-12-20T19:31:04.080-08:00WarriorsLast month, I was sitting outside enjoying the warm weather, when a spot of color on the grey rocks caught my eye. <br />
<br />
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<br />
Most of my friends consider wasps to be generally evil and best dead or non-existent. To a point, I understand them. The stings are painful and being allergic would make the matter even worse. As for me, wasps have never bothered me. I respect them and leave them alone, and they return the favor. One journal entry from my junior high years details a class period in which I did my best to dissuade a wasp from flying through an open window, lest he be slain by my excitable comrades (I had named him Charles), and in some ways I am quite the same as I was then. <br />
<br />
This wasp in particular was rather calm, choosing to walk rather than fly, which allowed me some interaction. I sat down and placed my hand beside him. He slowly crawled onto one of my fingers, crossed to the next, and then disembarked, a quiet and peaceful greeting. I pulled my camera out of my bag and took a few pictures of him as he roamed the rocky expanse. He was not threatening to me, physically or mentally, so I lay down on the ground watching him walk, the movement of his feet, the tilt of his wings, and his restful pauses. When I was forced to leave and continue my day, he was still there, and I cannot help but wonder what he might have told me if I could have understood. <br />
<br />
Nearly a week later, I was lost in a train station of thought, not quite ready to board any train in particular. Contemplations, ideas, and dreams bustled about me, pushing, ambling, or simply standing in place as I was. A pondering waved as it passed and, not seeing where it was going, crashed into a rushing thought. The two of them fell over on top of memories of the wasp, which had been sitting cross-legged staring at the ceiling. My love of watercolor stopped to help them up, and there I was able to focus on the four of them, follow, and board the same train. The destination was an image and the desire to paint it.<br />
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<br />
I worked on it on and off for about a month, not because it was overly difficult or large, but because I was occupied with other activities as well. When I finally finished, I was excited. Yes, I messed up several times in several places. I almost gave up when I was working on the fire. But my wasp is so close to the image I had in my head that I don’t mind the smudges, smears, and regretted decisions as much as I might otherwise.<br />
<br />
A flaming wasp in the rain to “cool,” but "cool" is not my intent.<br />
<br />
A wasp is more than an annoying or even threatening bug to be slain on a whim. Sometimes, such actions must be taken, but not always. What is it like inside one's head? I imagine that sometimes a wasp must be awfully afraid. They live in a world so much larger in comparison to them than we do. How can such a small creature hope to survive in an existence teaming with giants and ogres? But wasps continue anyway, even striking fear into the hearts of their enemies. They are natural warriors with armor and weapons that they are never physically able to set down. <br />
<br />
Humans really are small too. On some scales, we make about as much difference as wasps do. So why bother? Many people don't, but there are a few who are born warriors, much like wasps. They put their hearts on the line every moment of every day to push back the Darkness, everything from their own rage to the all too real nightmares of others, and they burn; they burn with a stunning light. The light and fire they carry within them has immense potential for destruction, their own as well as others', but they choose instead to protect. However, burning and fighting with such intensity wears on them, and often they long to stop their flight, to land, but the armor is part of their DNA, an exoskeleton. Even when they land, feet on solid ground, they can never take that armor off. So they fly, they fly through the darkness, inner light burning brilliantly, even when the sky lets loose torrents of rain, even when they feel infinitely small.<br />
<br />
These are the Christians who pull us back on our feet when we fall,
look us in the eye, and tell us it’s not the end of the world. They’ve
been where we’ve been, and they’ve helped so many people before us. They
remind us that sometimes we do have to fight.<br />
<br />
I am not a wasp as much as I am a bee: fluffier and less likely to attack. Not everyone was designed to be a wasp after all, but we can still make a difference in our terrifyingly large world, even if that difference is only to a single flower.<br />
<br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
Merry Christmas.</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
I’m so grateful for all of you, warriors or not.</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
Love,</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
Kara
</div>
Flora Rosehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11129860971153949973noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3832146521097721349.post-83745235609026228222015-11-13T13:20:00.001-08:002015-11-13T21:12:12.634-08:00In Case of Campus War or InvasionCollege or University campuses are often much like their own worlds; even ones that are open to the public to wander about in have a different feel to them than the rest of the towns they occupy. Within campuses are different factions of students, usually created by residence halls, majors, and/or clubs. These factions are highly competitive, frequently competing with each other with tooth and nail in campus events.<br />
<br />
One day it may not end with the games.<br />
<br />
One day, a faction may rise, smearing the blood of their enemies across their faces (or maybe just the ketchup from the student cafeteria), and declare that they will take campus by force, regardless of offers to surrender peacefully. <br />
<br />
One day they may spread to another campus in their maddened frenzy for power.<br />
<br />
Or<br />
<br />
Zombies, aliens, or both will invade campus.<br />
<br />
Regardless, college and university students have various options to increase survival.<br />
<br />
<hr />
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
<b>Prepare</b></div>
Always be as prepared as possible before war or invasion breaks out. Your friends will be grateful for a reduction of team deaths or captures by the enemy on your part.<br />
<br />
<u>Campus Familiarity</u>: Indispensable.<br />
<br />
Layout: <i>When running and/or hiding from an enemy, know where you are and where you are going. Trying to use a map </i>will<i> slow you down. Maps do not show you short cuts either. Take walks around campus often, exploring new areas.</i><br />
<br />
Buildings: <i>Know which buildings store what materials and which would make for the best base of operations. Is there chloroform in the science building? Where is the clinic, and what antibiotics are readily available there? Which building is easiest to barricade and defend? This is all important and should be taken into account. Unless the business building is the best built or closest to several buildings that you will need access to, it is not likely to make an efficient base.</i><br />
<br />
<u>Rations</u>: Starving during war or invasion is less than ideal.<br />
<br />
Campus Bookstore: <i>The campus bookstore rarely has only books. Generally this is where students can find shirts, jackets, umbrellas, and other various merchandise that has the school name and mascot on it. There are also microwavable foods and candy bars. Clothes and food are fundamental rations.</i><br />
<br />
Vending Machines: <i>Know where the vending machines are. Take special note of what each one has to offer. Chances are, there will be some variation. </i><br />
<br />
Store Runs: <i>College and University students will often take trips off campus to buy food items that the bookstore or vending machines may not have, such as canned foods. When on a food run, purchase a little more than is absolutely necessary and stash it somewhere safe. Unless there is a sale, buying extra in bulk is not recommended because, as a student, you have little money and need to pay for laundry, which is still important at this point.</i><br />
<br />
Dorm Rooms: <i>Be aware of how much food is where. Chances are, many of your neighbors will die in the initial outbreak of violence as well as later on, and their food stashes will be free for your use.</i><br />
<br />
<u>Team</u>: Yes, this does have to be a group project if you want better chances of survival. <br />
<br />
Basic Team Building: <i>This may be difficult for introverts (like myself) to accept, but long-term survival requires a team, and that means socializing beforehand in order to identify the best candidates. These people will need to be able to get along well under the worst conditions as well as have practical skills. Never select someone based on appearance. Betty may be pretty, but if she has nothing else to add, she'll likely get someone killed. If one of your candidates is in a relationship, either reject that one or be prepared to support the extra member (unless you wanted both of them anyway). Melodrama is a headache at best. Also: pick people who are just a little crazy, but also reasonable. Balance between logic and free creativity.</i><br />
<i><br /></i>
Recruitment:<i> Be tactful. If they think you're insane, they'll have nothing to do with you.</i><br />
<br />
Leader: <i>Having a leader is crucial. This will be the person who will make decisions and has to get along well with the team. He or she must be logical and caring. Life must be valued, but willing to be sacrificed when necessary. It's a hard role, and while many may clamber for it, very few can be trusted with it. Be wise when selecting your leader.</i><br />
<br />
Other Offices: <i>You will need people of widely varying skill sets. Your team may designate jobs such as spy, procurer of transportation, etc. You could also have only the leader named and the rest simply teammates. So long as everyone is somehow useful, the team should hold together. </i><br />
<br />
<u>Weapon Planning</u>: Anything is a possible weapon, and different team members will be skilled with different types of weapons. Know who is best with what and then provide it. <br />
<br />
<u>Alternate Plans</u>: Have a plan B. Also have many, many more plans. Know where to flee on campus and off. Do any of your teammates live far away from campus and other civilization? Go there. Anyone have ammunition at home? Stop there on the way. But always, be willing to change your plans. <br />
<br />
<hr />
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
<b>During</b></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<u>Team Work</u>: Listen to your leader, cooperate with your team, and be willing to set yourself aside for their sake. A lot will go wrong, but it may not go as badly as possible. <br />
<br />
<u>Base and Rations</u>: Be aware of how long you will be able to stay at your base. Rations for that location will eventually run out, even if you feel inclined to experiment with cannibalism (not recommended). Know how long your rations will last and how far you will be able to travel on those rations before needing more. Plan accordingly.<br />
<br />
<hr />
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
<i><b> </b>Many thanks to <a href="http://theyoungchristianswalk.blogspot.com/">Jason</a> for his help with this post as well as for his valued friendship.</i></div>
</div>
Flora Rosehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11129860971153949973noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3832146521097721349.post-85606356394201102032015-10-20T11:42:00.002-07:002015-10-20T11:42:19.115-07:00Amber<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
<i>In memory of a dear friend. For her, those she touched, and those like her.</i></div>
<br />
I'm beautiful<br />
you tell me.<br />
I am your dream,<br />
but why am<br />
I unable to sleep?<br />
<br />
You want me near<br />
you all times.<br />
I haven't seen<br />
friends or close<br />
relatives for a while.<br />
<br />
It's safe inside<br />
where others<br />
can't see me or<br />
hurt what's yours.<br />
You say I'm your princess.<br />
<br />
You never mean<br />
to hurt me.<br />
You wish I would<br />
understand.<br />
I think I'm scared of you.<br />
<br />
Maybe I do<br />
deserve this.<br />
Surely I am<br />
the reason.<br />
This is for my own good.<br />
<br />
It's love?<br />
<br />
If I let you beat me,<br />
will you be satisfied?<br />
If I do all you say,<br />
will you stop hurting me?<br />
<br />
Pain.<br />
Screaming.<br />
Broken skin.<br />
Fresh, dark bruises.<br />
<br />
Please let me rest.<br />
I promise<br />
you can proceed.<br />
I beg you<br />
a moment, please, of rest.<br />
<br />
You fell asleep.<br />
And I knew<br />
If I stayed here<br />
I would die.<br />
I had to escape this.<br />
<br />
No more.<br />
<br />
I have turned my weakness<br />
into strength,<br />
My running blood<br />
to amber,<br />
gem of courage.<br />
<br />
Because I was broken<br />
I can help<br />
heal those like me.<br />
I reach out<br />
into darkness.<br />
<br />
They are lost in the dark<br />
as I was.<br />
I bring them home,<br />
back to light;<br />
they aren't alone.<br />
<br />
I touch lives and change them.<br />
Whole classrooms.<br />
Individuals.<br />
Forever<br />
taking new course.<br />
<br />
From weak to strong,<br />
I am anew.<br />
My Father calls.<br />
"It's time to rest.<br />
<br />
"Come Home."Flora Rosehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11129860971153949973noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3832146521097721349.post-51356263393536864342015-09-09T19:42:00.006-07:002015-09-09T19:42:53.834-07:00Letter to the Guitar Player a Few Nights AgoDear Stranger,<br />
<br />
I came to the rocky cliff to sit on stone and watch the fading of the world below. Mere moments after, I heard you take your guitar out of its case and begin to practice. I didn't recognize the songs. One was on the verge of familiarity, but even if you had freed the words of song to soar in the evening light, I doubt I would have been able to name it. There are so many songs that I am able to warmly greet but a few and only nod in passing to others.<br />
<br />
I watched a sky ablaze settle into deep smoke as mist arose, a wyrm insubstantial, engulfing ebony trees. I finally left, not quite half an hour later, as darkness obscured my already failing vision. You were still playing.<br />
<br />
I paused on my way. "You play well."<br />
<br />
"Thanks."<br />
<br />
The shadows cloaked your face. I don't know who you are. I don't need to; the music was enough.<br />
<br />
With thanks,<br />
KaraFlora Rosehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11129860971153949973noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3832146521097721349.post-49190640153998769592015-08-01T19:57:00.003-07:002015-08-01T19:57:11.947-07:00The Used BookstoreThe buildings were old and weathered. Some sported paint and new signs, but the rest were comfortably the same as they had been for many long years. Walking along aged concrete amid the faintest sprinkle of rain, I glanced at the dusty windows of unused businesses. Where a comic book store had its short run, boxes, an old wardrobe, and an easel populate the darkness, illuminated only by the light shifting through neglected windows. A few more yards and a door greets me, paint chipped but cheerful regardless. I wrap my fingers around the metal handle and push gently, noting the pale semicircle on the floor that marks the door's daily repeated path. As I step inside onto the wooden floor, I take in my surroundings and close the portal. Two cats occupy the counter, one curled tightly in sleep and the other simply lounging, watching me with clear, green eyes. I know these cats, if only in passing. I have sat on the floor with them, running my hair stick back and forth across the uneven surface as they pounce, bat, and bite it.<br />
<br />
When was I last here?<br />
<br />
A year? More?<br />
<br />
I make my way to the back corner where science fiction and fantasy are laced together on the shelves, followed by one of the cats. Grace tossed aside, he leaps from the counter and charges past the shelves; his little thudding feet leave echos trailing behind him. Immediately, he jumps upon a chair, staring at me with loving eyes. I lean over, allowing him to climb to my shoulder. There I stroke him, soft fur sliding past my finger tips, pulling a silky purr into the air. This is not enough however, and he continues to climb on me, finally settling on my back, leaving me bent over to accommodate. His feet tucked in beneath him, he is the contented victor, having conquered the giant. I stand, bent over like a broken doll still left on display and stare at the books on the bottom shelf. Cookbooks and photography. I make a mental note to return, but never do. A minute passes and the cat leaves with no explanation. I straighten and take the last few steps to my chosen genre.<br />
<br />
Here, where spines wear authors and titles like strange garb from the far away lands in which they take place, I inhale and close my eyes, soaking in the atmosphere of the books that no longer have homes. This is a shelter, a place where those who find themselves unwanted are taken, a place where those who are lonely come.<br />
<br />
The cat has returned. He sits beside my feet, talking to me. His voice fills the space around him as clearly as if it were solid matter ballooning from his small form. My gaze flitters across the shelves and comes to rest on a note taped to a nearby door.<br />
<br />
<i>"Do not let cats in this room no matter how much they beg."</i><br />
<br />
He meows again.<br />
<br />
"No." I tell him, gentle and firm, but I still smile.<br />
<br />
Moments later, one of the store workers enters that back room, and the cat slips in. She calls to him, trying to navigate the stacks of boxes, all of which hold promising books. He proves stubborn however, and refuses to emerge.<br />
<br />
I return to the books. There are names I recognize and names I have never before encountered. <i>Goblin Moon</i> by Teresa Edgerton catches my eye, as does <i>The Gnome's Engine</i>. I start my book pile with them. I've never heard of the writer, but if I only read authors I already knew about, I would have far fewer books and much less happiness. I step to the side and lift my focus a few shelves higher. There, tucked away in shadow, are various works of Patricia McKillip. With a quiet sigh floating to the floor in the company of now startled dust motes, I carefully bring down <i>Od Magic</i>, still robed in Kinuko Y. Craft's cover art. This is a piece of my beginnings. I remember curling up with my mother under the covers of her bed, sunlight gleaming in the windows as I listened to her read, her voice crafting poetry from prose. <i>Od Magic</i> was one of our favorites, the color of the cover matched by the color of McKillip's descriptions and characters. Yes, well known and loved, this book will accompany me home as well. I also select <i>Riddle of Stars</i>, having never read the trilogy before, and had I unlimited time and the ability to do so, I would clutch more books to my heart and bring them home like baby birds in need of a mother, but Earth spins on her toes with no intention of slowing, no matter how desperately I may plea.<br />
<br />
Forcibly removing myself from the shelves where temptations beckon me sweetly, but not quite ready to leave the quiet little store, I cross the floor again, this time entering a little reading nook, populated by chairs, a couch, and a few small tables the perfect size for a pile of books and a laptop to comfortably sit together. The nearest table is taken by a dozing fellow. A little out of shape, his dark hair is warm from sunlight. I give him a polite hello as I take the chair closest to him. He opens shining eyes and answers with a soft meow and a tail twitch. We talk in whispers, gentle sounds in different tongues, as I rub behind his ears. We can hear the store workers talking.<br />
<br />
"Brody got in the back again." Her voice rests somewhere between concern and irritation.<br />
<br />
"I'll go get him." A man answers, seemingly resigned.<br />
<br />
This place is owned and run by a family. They don't aim to make it large or particularly profitable, so it stays small and quiet near the edge of the square in a town where most citizens would rather go hunting than read, and there is nothing wrong with that. I like the small and quiet. I love the empty spaces and dancing shadows. I enjoy the peace here.<br />
<br />
The door to the back room opens again, and I hear the man talking to Brody. "Go over there. There's a girl over there. She'll pet you."<br />
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Sure enough, I hear once more the echoing of little cat feet. Brody crashes onto the table between me and his brother. Tail high, he greets me with trilling song as I restack the toppled books. These he chooses to rub his cheeks against whilst sprawling across my purse.<br />
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"You can stuff him in your purse and take him home with you." The man reminds me of my father, not fond of cats, but loving people who are, and thus doomed to look after the small, bothersome beasts. Regardless, they are a part of his team.<br />
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I laugh. "I already have enough cats at home."<br />
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"Another cat person," he chuckles to himself before walking away into the forest of covers, spines, and pages.<br />
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I never once looked up from cats or books to see his face, to sketch in my memory how his face folded when he smiled or the manner in which he took a single step.<br />
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Eventually, I ease Brody off of my bag with apologies and careful movements, finally making my way back to the front desk. Somehow, I still have credit here, and it applies to all the books but one. I pay what is due and thank them, slipping back out the door with a little wave goodbye to the cats. It's sunny out by now, and I wish it wasn't. Rain, however light, always seems right when the day involves a used bookstore, especially a quiet one, but I count my blessings that the books stay easily dry.<br />
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Once in the car, I flip the pages of each book, smiling at them lovingly. Each used bookstore smells slightly different, as if the books have been talking to each other, sharing their stories and trading news of outside places. One day, when I am old and many of the books in my library are even older, my skin will be wrinkled and the books' pages will be yellowed, and both will still be filled with love and quiet.<br />
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And maybe, just maybe, a bit of cat hair.Flora Rosehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11129860971153949973noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3832146521097721349.post-52243220684008389712015-06-15T11:33:00.002-07:002015-06-15T11:33:12.888-07:00Box Turtle BuddyMy sister and I were enjoying rare free time together last month when we spotted a box turtle in the yard. We raced to the fridge to grab a couple strawberries and embarked to make a new friend.<br />
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He seemed to appreciate our gift and ate his fill before ambling away.<br />
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Nearly a week ago, I was greeted by a visitor on the front step: the same turtle. Reckless, he ambled up to me when I sat down on the ground. I placed my phone on the concrete in front of him to see what he would do with it. The curious creature inspected it from all angles, bumping his beak against its edges, before losing interest. I held out my hand to him, much the way I do with the cats. This too he bumped his beak against. It felt like getting a tiny high-five. He began to walk away, and I reached out and stroked the back of his head. Instead of pulling back in his shell, he let me pet him. He was friendly and trusting, with beautiful markings.<br />
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I returned inside to finish some work, but I didn't stay in long before I returned to my reptilian friend, this time with blueberries. He found this quite exciting.<br />
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Not at all intimidated by my ever present camera, he treated it with the same interest as he did everything else.<br />
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Finally he made his way through the grass to continue whatever expedition of great importance he happened to be on that day, and I was sad to see him go.<br />
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That evening, I decided to do some research. Most turtle types are territorial, so it's very likely that this little box turtle is the same one we met when my family moved in and the same one I encountered almost exactly a year ago. Apparently, box turtles live from thirty to fifty years. I hope this one stays around that long; I've come to consider him a friend. The next step in my research was to determine what kind of box turtle he is. That step did not go well. He has five toes on his front feet and three on his back feet, however, his markings aren't consistent with the three toed box turtle. I honestly have no idea. As far as I know, he could be a box turtle cross breed or simply a mutant. Either way, he's a beautiful turtle.<br />
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My father will sometimes tease me about talking to animals as if they were people, especially when it comes to the cats. In some ways though, they really are like people. Not all cats act identically. The same goes for dogs, hamsters, horses, and even turtles. When we head out into the world, we make friends and allies. Each will be different and startlingly beautiful because of that. Animals are just the same. This is why I decided to name the turtle, because--besides it being easier to say a name than "that box turtle that lives somewhere around our house"--he, in his own turtle way, has an undeniable personality.<br />
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His name is Gerald.<br />
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Flora Rosehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11129860971153949973noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3832146521097721349.post-27394527814962605182015-05-25T12:00:00.004-07:002015-05-25T12:00:58.087-07:00In Which I am (as Always) a GeekAt the beginning of this month, I had the chance to hang out with Christian. When we stopped for lunch, the lady who was our cashier noticed my Spiderman t-shirt and asked if I had seen the new Avengers movie, <i>Age of Ultron</i>. I had not, but that was no hindrance for a conversation about Marvel. She told me about her grandson, who was obsessed with Iron Man. No surprise there. Little boys tend to love him. I think it might be all the cool guns he gets to play with. Make something go boom, and the boys will be fans. She went on to say that they told him Iron Man is Robert Downey Jr. One evening he heard on a commercial that Downey was going to be on a late night show. He begged to stay up to see Iron Man, and they let him, much to his delight. That's the closest many people are able to come to meeting their heroes. I have to wonder if maybe the boy will actually meet his hero in the flesh some day, or if he might step up to the "big screen" and be the Iron Man of a next generation. I suppose I'll never know.<br />
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Saturday however, I did finally see <i>Age of Ultron</i>. I didn't wear my Marvel t-shirt--but only because it was in the wash, otherwise there would have been absolutely no question as to attire. As far as sequels go, it was a good movie. I was surprised that I wasn't already aware of very much of the plot, considering the amount of time I end up spending on websites riddled with fandoms. It seems the Marvel fandom is better about spoilers than the Sherlock or Doctor Who fandoms. The after credits scene made me very nearly squeal, so I'm looking forward to the next film Marvel puts out (not that I wasn't already). <br />
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After a Marvel movie, the only reasonable stop is the bookstore. There were more people than an introvert wants to find in a bookstore at four o'clock, but books are books and I still had gift cards (how I hadn't spent them already is beyond me, but it's most likely that I couldn't decide which books to spend them on). I followed my usual route, skimming over the new releases before stopping at the journals. I had three blank ones waiting for me at home, but I knew I'd regret not stopping to flip through bare pages and investigate the new designs. One burly leather volume caught my eye and nudged me into a smile. It had no pattern printed on it, only two words: <i>Carpe Diem</i>. Appropriate for a journal, but it also made me think of an English teacher I had, and I made a mental note to mention it to her. She taught us to seize each day and to know the difference between seizing the day and being reckless. <i>Carpe Diem</i> is far more appealing to me than YOLO ever could be.<br />
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I kept my visit with the journals short and took my normal path to hunt down the graphic novels. I was a tad surprised when I came to the usual aisle. It had changed, allowing more room for manga and moving the Marvel comics and graphic novels to the other side of the shelf. I was fine with this. I had manga I was planning on taking home, if I could locate them. It seems that the next book I need in a series is always the only one not on the shelf, but Saturday was a good day for me, and I found both the books I had been looking for, despite having to stay out of the way of other readers. Although, this time it wasn't much of a bother. I heard a conversation between, presumably, a father and his daughter in her mid to late teens. Another father occupied the aisle with me, his child, however, was much younger, a boy of maybe eight, wearing a bright yellow t-shirt and talking almost constantly. Weirdly enough, I didn't find it annoying. A short while later I slid into the science fiction section and found the same father and son carrying a conversation that I couldn't help but grin at overhearing.<br />
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"That's a TARDIS!"<br />
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"That's right."<br />
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"The TARDIS is cool." The little one was silent for a moment, contemplating. "I want a TARDIS."<br />
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<i>Don't we all?</i><br />
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I could almost hear his father smile. "Me too, Buddy."<br />
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"The TARDIS is a time machine."<br />
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"Well, it's interdimensional. It travels in more than just time..." He went on explaining the particulars of the TARDIS's traveling abilities to his son, and the boy listened. <br />
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I was beaming after hearing them. Be they American superheroes or British aliens, we all need someone to look up to. Nerd parents make me happy, and on almost any day, I wouldn't be able to say why. Today I can supply one reason, if not the whole picture. As opposed to other children, the children of nerds and geeks have special role models, heroes with extraordinary abilities, but it's not the abilities that make the heroes special. Superheroes have failings, flaws. They are aware of these flaws and are constantly working to overcome them. Sometimes the weakness can be an object like Superman's kryptonite, but often weaknesses are as common place as pride; the flaws often found in everyday people are reflected in their heroes. Heroes help us learn to overcome internally as much as externally. Children need that. The little boy is going to grow up, and his interests will change. He may come to believe that he's too old for <i>Doctor Who</i>, but he won't forget the love he had for it. He won't forget the Doctor who saves the universe by solving problems instead of killing, who runs to help no matter what race or species is calling out to him, and who cares about the individual people as well as their worlds. Although, at his age, he probably just likes it because of the time travel and aliens. Who's to say?<br />
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The duo wandered off, and I continued my perusal of the shelves. I made a point to stop by the YA books. Most are romance, but there are always a few gems. <i>I am Princess X</i> caught my eye. Honestly, I probably wouldn't have given it a second glance if the cover art had shown a normal high school girl. It didn't. The image was of a blue haired girl wearing a pink dress and holding a katana. But what sold me on it was when I noticed the author: Cherie Priest. That was it. The book was coming home with me.<br />
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I poked around in the graphic novels and was again presently surprised. There was <i>Brody's Ghost</i> by Mark Crilley. When I decided to improve my drawings years ago, my friend Maxine was the first person I went to. After she helped me with some basics, she had introduced me to Mark Crilley's drawing videos on YouTube, which have been a major help for both of us. We'd always been interested in reading <i>Brody's Ghost</i>, but we'd never come across it, and there it was in Barnes & Noble. I carefully slid the first book from its companions and added it to my growing pile.<br />
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After I checked out, I texted Maxine a picture from <i>Brody's Ghost</i> that I knew she'd recognize and added the caption of "Look familiar?" Needless to say she is going to borrow it the next time we see each other, and seeing as I was not the one driving and the book was rather thin, I read it in the car on the way home. I car sick afterwards, but it was worth it. Before I went to bed that night, I had finished my manga, and the next day I read through <i>I am Princess X</i>. Cherie Priest did not disappoint. Flora Rosehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11129860971153949973noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3832146521097721349.post-34261097085330545182015-03-13T21:33:00.000-07:002015-08-31T14:03:42.039-07:00Raining Spring: In Which I Am the Polar BearAfter a few occasions in which the sky dumped snow and the night froze said snow solid for several days, spring may finally be setting in. At least I hope it is. I have woken up to find sunlight and bird song outside my window, only to have it cruelly snatched away by daylight savings. Thus, I am more than ready for spring, for flowers, for tall grass, and even for the allergies that come from all of those blooming plants.<br />
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Our last snow and freeze was, admittedly, fun. In many areas of the yard, the ice was thick enough to hold my weight. I located especially smooth areas and let myself be a child again for a little while. Lying down with my back on the glass-like surface and breathing in the cold air, I contemplated the sky of a frozen Faerie Land. Moments later, I was sliding around in little half circles and giggling. There is no point in being grown-up if you can't stop and be a child at times. I also went about on my hands and knees saying "I am the polar bear!" I do not know why. It just happened. Occasionally, I would attempt to find weak spots in the ice and break it by slamming my "front paws" into it, like an actual polar bear might do. This didn't work quite as well as I had hoped, since usually it was my knees or backside that broke the ice instead, at which point my cry was "I am the fat polar bear!" because no polar bear breaks the ice that way. <br />
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Children play games where they pretend to be something or someone other than what they are. It's not something they plan out. They just do it. As we get older, we lose this ability. It becomes harder to shed our skins, to simply play. But maybe hope isn't lost for the grownups. Perhaps we can still step outside ourselves; it just takes a little magic.<br />
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The snow melt was beautiful. Light reflected off of the remaining sheets, illuminating falling drops and providing contrast to the vibrant green grass slowly being revealed. Taking my freshly charged camera, I set out once more to take some pictures.<br />
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Temperatures rose a few days ago. The little frogs began to sing again. Deciding to take a break, I trekked through the still muddy field into the woods. I hadn't journeyed far, when my cat, who had been following me at a distance, stood on her hind feet and stared intently at something over the hill. I had to walk a few yards to see what had attracted her attention, her litter-mate and my sister's cat, Shadow. Once he saw me, he decided to walk with me, which usually means he winds himself tightly between my feet. As I was on a sloping pond bank at the time, it is possible he was attempting to drown me. One can never say for sure with cats. After about fifteen minutes of frantic affection, he decided to follow at a more leisurely distance.</div>
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Venturing into a part of the woods I had previously left largely unexplored, I ducked under low branches and wove around fallen tree limbs. </div>
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Eventually, I came across a tree with a little well in its base where rain water and melted snow had gathered. It was the perfect size for a cat to drink from, which both Lizzy and Shadow preceded to do.</div>
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Finally, I decided to go home. Along my winding path back, Shadow found a stump on which to pose. Cats are fully aware of how beautiful they are and what colors bring that out; Shadow is no exception.</div>
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The last day or so, the sky has lazily drizzled rain from above, and the little peeper frogs have been singing contentedly. With God's blessing, this may be the beginning of spring, rather than a small moment of warmth in late winter. I'd like to be able to take more rambling walks with my camera and feline escorts for company in the near future.</div>
Flora Rosehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11129860971153949973noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3832146521097721349.post-25323882295934812582015-03-04T18:26:00.005-08:002015-03-04T18:26:52.287-08:00Reading AgainI was raised in a forest. Books could be found in almost every room of our little house.<br />
<br />
Until I was twelve, our home was a white two story house surrounded by fields. The closest town, where my sister and I went to school, was nearly half an hour away. We grew up isolated, in a way, in our own special kingdom teeming with magic and wonder, two princesses of light, and our parents the gentle English major rulers.<br />
<br />
The center piece of our house, as far as I was concerned, was a simple bookshelf. There was a row of books behind the ones that showed and books lying on top of those. I felt I would spend my life reading them all. Every night, my father would read to us before bed: a chapter from the Bible and a chapter from a fiction book. My sister and I would curl up against our mother and listen to tales of Fuzzies, Martian invasions, and water turned to wine. Many nights we begged for just one more chapter, and I remember Dad flipping pages to see how long it would be, if he could manage to read that much more. When he spoke, saying "I think we could," it was a victory, and we would snuggle closer.<br />
<br />
When I was a little older, I would select books from the short shelves in my father's study, shelves assembled from bricks and planks of wood. I couldn't wait until I was older, when I wouldn't have to do homework or sit in school instead of reading. Now, I miss those days. Reading what I choose to read is a rarer commodity, precious. This last week, I was finally able to read two books from my own list. It's like stepping back into that house, light streaming through the windows on a summer day. I feel closer to being whole than I have in months.<br />
<br />
There is a fulfillment in lifting another beings' thoughts and dreams from paper and ink and making it a part of yourself.Flora Rosehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11129860971153949973noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3832146521097721349.post-55163885020597227752015-02-06T19:23:00.003-08:002015-02-06T19:23:16.048-08:00A Letter to TeaMy dearest Cup of Tea,<br />
<br />
The water is starting to steam. Soon I will venture back to the kitchen, rounding the counter to reach my destination. A kettle will be lifted, and water will spill forward and down into the biggest mug I could find. Then I'll have to leave you until I wander back again, slightly different from only a handful of passing minutes. Funny how that works, isn't it? I'll be the same person, but enough thoughts will have bustled through my brain to alter my mood, even if only by a smidgeon.<br />
<br />
Holding the mug, I will feel the warmth sinking silently, softly, into my hands; skin, and then bone, warming at the gentle and firm touch of palm and pottery. The first sip will be tentative, then grateful. My insides will glow with warmth at your sweet touch. You mend all the wrongs in my little universe, even the wrongs that don't really have names and don't really exist anyway.<br />
<br />
I stumble down the hall in the mornings to set the kettle on the stove because I love the process of slowly waking up with you in the early hours of day. When I come home, the kettle goes right back on the stove because you melt the day from me, allowing me to remember who I am, who the girl who roams the woods and fields truly is. She's more than reactions, numbers, and words. She is reflective thought and peaceful moments.<br />
<br />
There is a special little gift you give me, my friend. You let me just exist rather than do, allow me to ponder, muse, and dream without the pressures of the world. Thank you for that.<br />
<br />
Forever yours,<br />
KaraFlora Rosehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11129860971153949973noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3832146521097721349.post-73096672173825807072015-01-31T16:36:00.003-08:002015-01-31T16:36:03.433-08:00Roses<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<br />
Time, sun,<br />
and we dry out.<br />
Our dreams and velvet patience<br />
evaporate, leaving us<br />
hard and dark, curling up<br />
a little more with each day. We crumble<br />
at gentle touches.<br />
<br />
Swept off the floor,<br />
the counter, the table,<br />
we give in to the final fate. <br />
<br />
A breeze and we skitter<br />
across the cool surfaces, soft<br />
voices unfurling into stories.<br />
<br />
Can it be:<br />
roses do not simply die?<br />
Fragerences last, as distant<br />
voices whisper fading words.<br />
<br />
Perhaps,<br />
just maybe,<br />
we still hold worth<br />
to the special few.Flora Rosehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11129860971153949973noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3832146521097721349.post-42730966264140800992015-01-19T20:30:00.003-08:002015-01-19T20:30:32.491-08:00It's LateWell, late to be writing a blog post, anyway.<br />
<br />
I should be going to bed, but my thoughts won't quiet down. I need to ramble, pick apart words and put them together in different orders again. I suppose that's where I find myself, in the space between reality and dreams, sitting in a dewy meadow under a vast universe of stars, tying daisy chains with clovers.<br />
<br />
I'm messaging with Christian at the moment. I am truly blessed to have him as a friend. We talk about things that matter and about nothing at all. It's good to be able to have conversations about things that really matter on the inside. Sometimes we get lost in a world so focused on surfaces that we lose the way back into our hearts, and we can't find who we are anymore. We become mirrors that stumble along lanes of superficial social conformities, only reflecting and never projecting anything that isn't already packaged and labeled for our society. If everyone is a mirror, there is nothing to reflect.<br />
<br />
Are we truly that afraid of ourselves? Are we truly that afraid of what we can do? <br />
<br />
In a world full of mirrors, those who choose to become lights shine all the brighter.<br />
<br />
Thank you, Christian. You are a light.Flora Rosehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11129860971153949973noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3832146521097721349.post-13495992809776805532015-01-17T11:43:00.002-08:002015-01-17T11:43:45.487-08:00Let Us ShineI have a special love for stars. They shimmer in a blue dark enough to pass for inky black, fragments of some glistening magic from afar raining down gossamer kisses. They beckon me into contemplation and enshroud me in comfort; they call me to open my eyes and dream.<br />
<br />
They have inspired writers and other artists for ages. Shakespeare's "Sonnet 116" describes love as "the star to every wandering bark" (line 7). It doesn't really surprise me that he chose a star for his analogy. Sure, it makes sense logically, but it's also emotionally fitting. I look up into the night sky and I am awash in Abba's love. It's like He's taking my hand and pulling me into a dance, laughing.<br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
<i>"But when I look at the stars,<br />
when I look at the stars,<br />
when I look at the stars I see someone else.<br />
When I look at the stars,<br />
the stars, I feel like myself."</i></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
Switchfoot "Stars" </div>
<br />
Everything has an end, right? Even stars die. The thing is, starlight continues on through time and space, continuing to affect us. Oddly enough, we're like stars in that respect. We live and we die, but there's more to us than that, to which we are often blind. Each motion, each word, is a spark, the tiniest of lights in a vast darkness. Together these sparks define us, combined to make vast stars. We are seen within our solar systems, our galaxies, our universe. Even after we die and our bodies crumble into dust, the our lights continue on through space and time. Maybe in our writing, our art, our music, or simply the memories of others.<br />
<br />
There is a long history of using stars to navigate. This also applies to
us. We use stars like the disciples, saints, writers, and musicians to
help us redirect ourselves to Christ, to stay on course when we can't
see the shore. All of whom will continue to inspire others long after
they die, whispering Father's love into hearts that are battered and
torn, for all hearts are.<br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
<i>"Your love will lead us through the fight<br />
Like stars in the night"</i></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
Tenth Avenue North "Stars"</div>
<br />
<i>He took him outside and said, "Look up at the heavens and count the stars--if indeed you can count them." Then He said to him, "So shall your offspring be."</i> Genesis 15:5<br />
<br />
We are the descendents of Abraham and children of God, and we are stars. We are more than innumerable; we are lights in the darkness. We light the way long after we have gone.<br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
<i>"This little light of mine</i></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<i>I'm gonna let it shine" </i></div>
Flora Rosehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11129860971153949973noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3832146521097721349.post-57920017395547114832014-12-24T13:21:00.004-08:002014-12-24T13:21:48.488-08:00Our Call to RegiftIt is Christmas eve. Well, it's not evening yet, but let's ignore that for a moment. Colorfully wrapped presents repose beneath a shimmering tree. Go ahead. Take a picture of the momentary splendor. In a handful of hours, the paper will be strewn across the floor, several of the candy canes will have mysteriously disappeared, and the spell of the unknown will be dispersed. You may receive clothes, books, games, and maybe even that new CD you've been dieing to get your hands on. Some of these may not be quite to your taste, and that's okay, right? You can always regift it next year, and doesn't your cousin even have a birthday next month?<br />
<br />
For the last few weeks, we've been hearing sermons about Jesus being sent to us as a child so that He could die on the cross, the perfect lamb, to save us from our sins. It's the ultimate gift, a Savior who loves us without restraint. What do we do with a gift like this, a gift that is valuable beyond compare? Many of us accept it gratefully, place it on the mantle, and gaze at it fondly from time to time. Being a Christian would be far easier if that was all that is required of us. Neither are we only called to be His servants. Christ is a Christmas gift like no other. He is a gift we must pass on with jubilation. In our culture, we regift what we don't want and greedily cling to what catches our fancy, but instead, Abba would have us give our greatest gift to others. In doing so, we do not lose it; rather, regifting the love of Christ enriches our lives as Christians. Not to mention, it's the best gift you can pass along, even if it isn't immediately received from your friend, family member, or acquaintance.<br />
<br />
In this holiday season, we are called regift Christ, to share his limitless love with others.<br />
<br />
I know this post isn't very long, but it's something I've been wanting to post since the fourteenth. Maybe it's something one of you needs this season, maybe not. Regardless, have a safe and merry Christmas. You are loved beyond comprehension and compare. Flora Rosehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11129860971153949973noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3832146521097721349.post-27029530926066456832014-12-17T15:40:00.003-08:002014-12-17T15:40:37.901-08:00The Unexpected GiftIn the early morning,<br />
before the sunrise,<br />
little padded feet<br />
approach the Christmas tree.<br />
They are not the child's;<br />
she rests above.<br />
They are not Santa's,<br />
for he has come and gone.<br />
These belong<br />
to a Christmas kitten,<br />
covered in soft,<br />
tabby fur.<br />
<br />
She stalks the stocking<br />
of the little girl.<br />
She thought she saw it move.<br />
Surely,<br />
it moved.<br />
<br />
The stocking falls over,<br />
toppled by one quick whap.<br />
Candy falls out,<br />
but doesn't skitter.<br />
It is the mane<br />
of a little<br />
unicorn<br />
that draws the attention<br />
of a pair<br />
of gold green eyes.<br />
<br />
Oh, alas.<br />
The unicorn had no chance.<br />
Pounced upon,<br />
kicked,<br />
and licked.<br />
All<br />
savagely.<br />
<br />
A light clicks on,<br />
and a gasp breaks free.<br />
Little Tina on the landing.<br />
Her unicorn badly mauled.<br />
She doesn't cry.<br />
She doesn't scream.<br />
<br />
She laughs,<br />
and that<br />
by far<br />
is her favorite gift<br />
that night.Flora Rosehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11129860971153949973noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3832146521097721349.post-51366586045917398662014-12-03T17:02:00.002-08:002014-12-03T17:02:38.432-08:00A December UpdateThis is not going to be one of the stunning posts, just a warning in case you read through this expecting an astounding conclusion and, in your bitter disappointment, decide to revolt.<br />
<br />
A few days after <a href="http://drakelingrose.blogspot.com/2014/11/letter-to-green-bean-casserole.html" target="_blank">Letter to Green Bean Casserole</a>, my mother decided to make a green bean casserole. I may or may not have consumed roughly half. It was glorious.<br />
<br />
I've been rereading George MacDonald's <i>Phantastes</i>, and, as I also recently watched the Jim Henson movie <i>Labyrinth</i>, I'm toying with writing a research paper on Fairyland being a medium for growing up in stories. It's an exciting proposition. I could use <i>Phantastes</i>, "Goblin Market", <i>The Chronicles of Narnia</i>, <i>Peter Pan</i>, and other wonderful works of literature. That may not be until the summer, however. And speaking of papers, Ace informed me that he fully intends to post the paper he mentioned in his last update. It is on the topic of sexism in video games, and while I don't game myself, I am interested in the topic. <span class="st"></span><br />
<br />
Recently, I widened my internet presence. I decided to use the name Onevartist, for the simple reason that it will be easier to find than Kara Smith (apparently there are a lot of us). I have a <a href="http://onevartist.deviantart.com/" target="_blank">deviantArt</a> and a Google+. Yay. I have a YouTube as well, and I'm hoping to post bible study videos in a few years, with the help of my friend Christian, but as of yet I haven't posted anything there.<br />
<br />
Well, I do believe I have exhausted my supply of relevant information. Stay warm this winter. I'll do my best to post again later this month.Flora Rosehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11129860971153949973noreply@blogger.com1