prose week

Last night I swam, fully clothed, in the estival springs of Walden Pond. The water was smooth and relented easily when my callused feet interrupted its surface. My lungs swollen, I stepped myself down, into the clean waters, my denim hems rustling soundlessly on the pebble-studded bottom. I kicked up, mermaid-style, muted gales billowing my pant legs and inflating my t-shirt.

I fan my arms, and concentric ripples appear, cresting each in a soft anticlimax, my unassuming form squarely and soundly their epicenter. I raise my face; the sun assaults my tender eyes, and I slide them leniently closed. A boat motors purposely by, but I lie still, unthreatened.

At last, whole.

Again, this is not necessarily connected to my novel -I like to reuse names.

Etienne is away appeasing the Portuguese delegation, which is all the better; I can’t have him finding out about this. I knew that woman would return to plague him; yet pestilence in this form seems a horror undue even him. This is an intimate plight, one to remain cloistered among women.

My breath rushes, and my lips tremble. Adia Scarborough was a common whore; a false beauty, emboldened with passions not hers to claim; no doubt rotting in a syphilitic grave in some impoverished district. And here is my daughter, my beautiful, impressionable girl, practically lusting over her, finding her image in the holiest of places!

I can’t look Aurore in the face, I can’t notice her beauties without the Adia's harsh countenance spoiling them! I leave her under the eye of Evanna, the palest, youngest maid, and take to my bed for the morning.

This is not necessarily connected to my novel -I like to reuse names.

* * *

That night, I find Aurore, who has stationed herself in the corridor en route to the chapel. Mass has been ended for several hours, and the rows lay placid, empty beneath the fractioned windows.

“Aurore?” I display my lantern, throw my countenance into illumination. “Cherie? What takes you here, my love?” I lay my solid hands upon her shoulder blades, setting the lantern at my feet.

She does not raise her head. Her eyes are trained, predatory, on a fierce and sprawling tapestry. One in a series of telltale panelings, it spells the story of a woman, knee-high in flames, facing damnation for her especial sins.

“Maman,” says Aurore, “where am I?”

I peer at her over my dressing-table. My daughter, my Aurore, one month shy of her twelfth birthday, spindle-limbed, coltish. When she still allows my presence in the bath -more and more rarely, these days- I can see her soapy front whittling, her nipples round and shiny. My child, always, but not a child any longer. Tonight, her skin glows, muted pink, exposed at the lace edges of her nightdress, and her loose curls frame her countenance. I am proud of the beauty she wears so effortlessly, proud and jealous both, and at the same time I love her for it, too. Contradiction, thy name is motherhood.

The pain and force soon rattle my jaw; my heart, shrouded within its dainty cage, gives a momentous leap, alive for once, and open. I fall to my elbows; Stephan shouts and jeers, his dignity forgotten, and the midwife lands her on my chest: A mottled, white-on-pink body, too minuscule to be sentient yet completely so; a little girl, perfect, in all her naked glory. Dear reader, I can scarcely put it to the page, conscript it into coherence -for it was real, real and bloody and whole, and my hands tremble to recount it. All thoughts of dangers, real or imaginary, left me as my daughter gave her first suck.

Even Stephan is moved, in his own taciturn way. Once the girl has exhausted my breast, he offers his smallest finger, with more care than I’d thought him capable of. He pets her yellow, caul-drenched head, and my worst fear relaxes. He loves her.

I tried to do this in the fashion of Orson Scott Card. There's a definite trick to it. Tell me how it turns out, 'kay?

The climax of my garden sees itself down a wide, well-fleshed hill, sketching the neat rows of roots and moss-bred blooms into wild, uncontrolled tendrils. In the mornings, the shoots, freshly misted with dew and seasonal snow, burrow their effacing selves into the soil, back from whence they’ve come, but by noon their flat, fractional faces are turned toward the sun. An unexpected prickle of rain bids them squirm but does them good.

"You'll never be perfect" the girl says. "Look at you," she continues "Your style sucks, your hair.." she stops and cackles "That's its own work. Were you trying out for Young Frankenstein?" she laughs while the girl sinks lower. "You're clothes," she begins "Hmmm, raid your brother's closet again?" She laughs harder as the girl falls. "What's this? On the ground? You really are a weakling" She laughs harder and harder until she can no longer breathe. "God girl, you make me laugh! I don't know how you live with yourself. Day in and day out waking to find you're no better than yesterday. All day you walk through the world knowing that everyone hates you and what everyone say is that you're a.." She's cut off as the mirror falls to the ground and breaks.

When I wake up every morning, a new day begins. In each typical day, I want to become a person who is able to be successful. Success comes with dedication and effort that definite the idea of how to live an ideal life. Everyone has agreements they have committed to in their lives. They live by their codes everyday, happily, to improve themselves. In the morning, I dress up appropriately and am ready to follow my three personal agreements. They are to Believe in Myself, to Take Chance and Treasure Every Opportunity, and to Always Do My Best. It is important to follow my codes because it helps me to improve myself gradually in life.

As Americans, we belive that "everyone should be encouraged to pusue their dreams." We want our dreams, no matter how peculiar they are, to come true. It's what we strive for. Dreams give us something to live for and give us something to feel good about, once we achieve it. Without dreams, nothing would get acomplished, but we have to be true to ourselves too.

Our dreams should be encouraged, because without them, our world would be full of people doing the same things, over and over agian. Our parents are usaully big supporters of us, because they want us to do well. If we fail to succeed, they feel like they have let us down. Our siblings and friends also encourage us to do our best. Even teachers, or other adults, at school want to help us achieve our goals and dreams. They don't want to see us fail, because if we do, that tells them that they didn't do a very good job teaching us. But, what if we can't live up to our goals and dreams?

These two pieces are the prologue and epilogue to my novel. I'm posting them like this because I'm testing out the juxtaposition.

Prologue

“Twenty-one years ago,” said she, “I was sixteen. This was when you happened upon my life, when I was a girl barely able to care for myself. Alas, I lived only to be thirty-seven. I suppose, though, that I should be grateful for the years I did have.”

As Sraih’s darkness became denser, thicker the lights began to fade, Zessen’s vision blurred. Zessen found himself struggling to breathe. Though he could not see himself he wrapped his white power around his chest, retreating slowly as air once again flowed through him easily. Then the dark was suddenly gone and something heavy lay in his arms. He opened his eyes, which he found he’d shut, and looked down at Sraih who was leaning against him.

This is a section of a longer piece that i don't want to bore you with. it's one of my favorite parts.

Melanie flicked off the TV and went back to munching her cereal. The newsman's report sounded like it always did. Somebody's upset with the US and threatening nuclear attack, x number of murders occurred yesterday, somebody vaguely famous died. She sighed and shoved the last bite of cereal in her mouth. She dumped her bowl in the sink and headed to the bathroom.
She brushed her teeth, spit out the sugary mint paste and wiped her mouth. She scrutinized her face in the mirror and flopped her hair around. She had been meaning to try a new hair style but. . . Her eye caught a cute hair clip in the drawer. She brushed her hair and pulled it into a ponytail. She finished it with her hair clip. There. It was at least different. She smiled at herself in the mirror
She grabbed her book bag on the way out the door.
"Have a good day honey! Love ya!" Her mother called after her.
She grunted back something unintelligible which was taken to mean "I love you, too" and left.

this is definitely a work in progress, it's pretty rough for now though.

When we drove down the straightening road, past the big houses and the small ones, all of which had big pools in the back, I caught a glimpse of patchy red between estates. I felt my heart beat speed up, and a smile erupt on my face as the blood began coursing through my veins. When we pulled into the parking lot i stepped out of the car, my feet crunching on the stiff gravel and my excited lungs inhaling the quickly cooling air as i rushed to join my brothers in red.
Our great leader stood before us, his voice resounded over the masses, forceful and clear. I leaned forward, watching as he waved his hands to emphasize his words. This isn't about winning anymore, he said, if you all give it everything you've got, by this time it should show. Remember, we're in the water in five.