July 7, 2014
8. An accordian in the distance

            The battered instrument gave a few weak notes, before it sprang to life. The man holding it, animating it, was all sad smiles and distant eyes. His children sat around him, grinning and dancing with eachother. Other tenants in the dingy green apartment complex rolled their eyes in annoyance, or smiled with a certain fondness for the nearly rustic instrument. It had become a common sound for them.
            Far above the man, the children, the neighbors, and even the meager apartment complex itself, a woman smiled. She smiled as she stared off into the light settling itself against the mountain tops. The wind provided a small relief from the heat of the day, and her vantage point provided relief from the tumultous state of her mind. Around her was the perfect kind of white noise: cars passing, people talking and laughing, the accordian man, the occaisional light rail train, the wind, and of course, her own breathing. But, I suppose, this isn’t about the girl, or the city. It’s not about the cars, or the heat, or any of that. It’s about the world-weary man that could push life into a beat-up accordian.

            He didn’t come from money, neither did his parents, nor his parents’ parents. He had listened to the tales of his grandparents fighting to get into this country, of their jobs at the factory, making fifty cents a day. And he listened to his parents fight every night in a garble of broken English and fierce German; heard them worry over if he’d have winter clothes, the ramshackle car and small house. His vader passed in a work-related accident when he was nine. His mutter decided it was time to move somewhere new; that somewhere ended up being Colorado.
            It was quite the trip, moving from “The Big Apple” to some little out of the way town. She worked two jobs, just managing to keep the roof over their heads and food on the table. He never saw her much. But if he learned anything from her, it was how to keep going when the going got tough.

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July 6, 2014
Apologies, apologies…

I had totally intended on keeping up with writing something every night once I got home. But then this wonderfulthing called jetlag hit me. As well as my body retrying to get used to teh climate back home. 

So, if all goes as planned, I’ll be up and writing again tonight or tomorrow. Or I’ll just make myself do it during the day. We’ll see.

1:37pm  |   URL: http://tmblr.co/ZGGU3q1KjdCGP
Filed under: sorry writing soon 
July 1, 2014
No writing tonight

I just got home from visiting New Hampshire for 2weeks and after a looooooong boring flight, I’m pooped. It’s 1AM and I’m off to bed. I’ll write tomorrow.

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Filed under: tired 
June 30, 2014
7. Just a bit about me

So tonight I have a massive headache, and with that headache standing strong, well, I have found myself at a place where I can’t get past the first sentence with a creative endeavor. That being said, I guess entry…6? is just a stupid about me segment; prepare yourself for the random, potentially TMI and otherwise.


My name is Shaylene, and well, yes. I’m a girl. Though, I tend to lean towards being more gender neutral and have seriously considered a sex change operation before (I have made no progress on a decision for or against it.) I’m 18 and will soon be moving from my lifelong home in Denver, Colorado to go to school in pursuit of a degree in Education at Northern Arizona University.


Uhhh. Let’s see. My favorite color is blue (but also grey and green), I love green tea ice cream. The best weather is when it’s grey outside and I love the night. I can’t stand icky bugs or raw vegetables, or yellow wallpaper. Besides writing, for fun I knit, sing, draw, walk around, dabble in photography, watch movies and tv series (Just finished Torchwood, and am now finishing up the old Doctor Who). My fandoms include: Avengers, Sherlock, Doctor Who, Supernatural, and a random group of crime shows. I love tall socks of zany color and pattern, and collect stickers and pins. I hoard pens.


As for music, I listen to a bit of everything with the small exception of most rap and screamo type music. My favorite bands are Matchbox 20 and The Script. I also tend to listen to a lot of a capella artist and cover artists such as Peter Hollens, Boyce Avenue, Nick Pitera and plenty more.

I love a good flash game and exploring new places. I tend to write these first in a WordPad document in the Euphemia font because… I don’t know. It’s how I started this. (It also has to be size 10 and 1.0 spacing with no space between enter hits).


With that I am off to bed, as I return home from a trip to New Hampshire tomorrow and I am dead tired after the beach today. Thanks for reading! (I’m talking to you two new followers!) If anyone reads this and wants to know anything else, send an ask or whatever and I’ll answer to the best of my ability!

Update: I was wrong, this is post 7.

June 29, 2014
6. Every morning I walked to the cafe for my latte, and a glimpse at him

             Every morning I walked to the cafe for my latte, and a glimpse at him. He was… abnormal, in a not obvious way. His hair was black, and hung down to his shoulders, and he had sharp green eyes. He always sat in the very back corner booth; most out of the way, and no matter the season he always wore a scarf. Most days, it was a deep sea blue, and almost seemed to rock with the incoming and departing tides. Others he sported a green one, maybe a mustard yellow once or twice.
             I hadn’t started out going to see him. Until once, once he ran into me. Once we made eye contact that last for an eternity. Once we stammered apologies and ran on our merry way. Since then, I’ve always stopped and tried to meet that impossible gaze once again. I guess I was a little obsessed. But, it served its purpose; I suppose.
             Several months after that initial run-in, after day after day of lattes and staring down the green-eyed man, something happened. He would come in late, just after I had arrived. I could feel his eyes coast over me. One morning, my alarm didn’t go off. I woke up at noon and rolled over to find myself face to face, nose to nose, with some very sharp green eyes. I would’ve fallen backwards out of the bed if he hadn’t of grabbed me.
             We laid there in the silence for what felt like hours, just gazing back and forth; his green eyes matched with my honey-brown ones. There’d be brief interludes of our eyes slipping down to eye the rest of our forms. Mine was clad in cotton pajamas, mismatched. The bottoms were men’s plaid, and the top was cupcakes. I wasn’t even wearing a bra, let alone panties. He was wearing his usual attire; the dark shirt, scarf and jeans. There was something extremely intense about those moments.
After a while, I just…fell asleep. And when I woke he was gone. I thought I dreamed it. Then it happened again; he was no longer lurking in the coffee shop, but instead he would appear in my bed, we’d stare eachother down, then I’d doze off again, several times a week. I never got tired of staring into those eyes.
             It was another month before we said a single word to each other. He very quietly mumbled ‘Nathan’, and I responded with an equally quiet, ‘Lisa’. Nathan started to appear more frequently. A few times, his clothes changed, or some disappeared all together. The scarf was always there. After a while, we started to talk. Just small smatterings of whispered words, then mumbled conversations. They were never

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Filed under: free write prompt 
June 27, 2014
5. Letter to 15-year-old Me

Dear 15-year-old Shay,
                You don’t know me yet; well, you do. But you don’t know me as me today, rather you know me as you. The smile that faces you back in the mirror. But let’s cut the poetic bullshit; I guess that’s not really the purpose of this letter.
                I’m not sure I know what the purpose is. I don’t want to divulge too much and change anything; I’m grateful for all that’s happened between then and now, even the bad things. I guess I should start somewhere, anyway.
                This is you, three years later. It doesn’t sound like a real long time. But hell, you’re about to (or already just entered) our first relationship. I’ve just graduated high school. Hell and high tides are on their way and you’re going to make it just fine.
                Be wary, listen a little more. And not just to your heart, but to everyone. Friends, family, and yourself more than anything. Be prepared, there’s hard decisions to be had, and I mean it when I say they’re hard. But in the end, I trust you’ll do what’s right. We haven’t led ourselves astray thus far!!
                Past that… I mean, what else is there to say? I don’t want to change anything. I want you to be careful and be true to yourself. But that’s all I can say. The rest is up to you. And no, I couldn’t have explained more, because that would be spoilers, Sweetie.
                Keep your chin up, be happy, be true, and may the force be with you. I mean. Live long and prosper. Errr. Bye!

                                        Signed,
                                            18-year-old Shay

June 27, 2014
4. “The man laughed loudly at a joke that only he had heard”

              The man laughed loudly at a joke only he had heard. His shrill laughter echoed down the hall and tears pricked at his violet eyes. He clutched his sides, leaning up against a wall as he laughed and laughed. Strangers passed by him, giving strange, sideways glances as they tried their best to ignore the latest loon. That task became infinitely harder as his grin split his very cheeks; leaving his grin, and most of his face, red with blood. It was really quite the bizarre, and grotesque sight. Before long, his face paled to a smudgy white; only his torn grin painted red.
              He pulled and tugged at his hair as his laughter only got louder, seemingly amplified by what had to be an excruciating amount of pain. Slowly, he made his way down the hallway, one pained, hysterical step after another. The other people either sped up to get away, turned around, or passed slowly, mouths gaping in horror of the sight that was laid out before them. Strangely, no one stopped to help. They walked by (or not), tight lipped and stern; carrying about their business as if nothing had ever, or would ever happen.

              The split cheeks healed remarkably fast; leaving nasty red scars up the sides of his face. The bulk of his face kept the remarkably pale, nearly paper-white, tone; a sickly green sneaking in around his eyes. The more people stared, the more he had to chuckle to himself. It got to the point that he laughed more than he ever had before. His best friend, a rather sullen, serious lad, abandoned him. Ran off to his mansion and hid away.
              He was left alone and to his own devices. The world around him was ever so serious and it was time to make some smiles. Play some pranks.
              They started out small; the classic, but tired and worn out, snake in a can, vaselined doorknob. You name it. But as time wore on, he grew weary of the same old tricks that everyone knew. He had to up his game, make it bigger. There had to be a smile on every face.
              And so a villain was born. Stink bombs turned into laughing gas; creating smiles so big they tore cheeks; they died laughing. The bomb part took more literal effect; what’s a good time without a few explosions? His one-time best friend, was now his sworn enemy. Shrouded in black he’d patrol the night and try to stop his once-friend. When all was said and done, when all the world had finally heard. There’s a few small words that he’d forever be remembered by. Why. So. Serious.

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June 26, 2014
3. “The footprints in the snow suddenly ended”

           The footprints in the snow suddenly ended, and Lief became all too aware of the predicament he now found himself in. All at once, all the old wives tales his nan had told him came rushing at him, full speed. Stories of the wild men, the children of the forest, pesky pixies and sirens of the snow. All the things that lured man and child alike into the deepest depths of the forest; chasing some noble cause, just to be ended. He spun around to follow his own footsteps back to the village, but they, too, vanished.
           He took a few shaky steps, his vision blurring at the edges and his chest heaving as he started to hyperventilate. His mousy brown hair fell into his eyes and he stumbled to the ground. The snow crunched beneath him. He struggled to gain purchase, grasping in the for solidity before he sat up. I need to stay calm, he thought, I need to find my way back. He tried to focus on his hand, half-way buried in the snow. Breath in, breath out. Breath in, breath out. Calm. Focus.
           He could hear the snow crunch, breathing. But not from himself. He gave a panicked glance around, emerald eyes wide with fear. But those crystalline orbs found nothing. He was utterly alone, and even that snow that had laid disturbed moments ago from his stumble, was pristine once more. Panic started to seep in again. He could hear the sweet lilting lullaby of the winter; twigs snapping at the weight of snow, but most of all, the silence. The silence that accompanies the blanket of snow, the muffling pillow that choked out all life in the land.
           Lief rose, placing a hand on the nearest tree. He leaned against it heavily, pressing his forehead to the rough bark and closed his eyes. One, two, three, four, five. He opened them again and looked around once more. Crimson droplets appeared in the snow, were they there before? Where did they come from? He looked down, eyes widening in terror as he realized the bloodied snow was from his own wounds. Was I hurt before? He thought, in a panic. Blood oozed from the soles of his suddenly bare feet, staining the perfect snow; but even then, it wasn’t painted red for long. As it turned back to the perfect white blanket without a second thought. Lief opened his

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June 25, 2014
2. “The floorboard creaked”

            The floorboard creaked, and her eyes shot open. Without making a sound, she sat up in her bed, the covers sliding down her torso. As she turned in the bed, shuffling silently into shoes and proper clothes her actions seemed robotic, like she wasn’t really there.
            The room was bright, painted a soothing blue and all along her nightstand were an array of flowers and long-since faded get-well-soon cards. She passed them without a second glance. From downstairs the sound of laughter wafted up, dancing through her ears; but still, it seemed, she did not hear.
            She drug her fingernails down the wall, watched the thin paper crinkle and tear under the pressure. One foot after the other, she took step after step down the hallway; feet placed carefully and evenly so that it wouldn’t creak again. There were no windows here, no open doors. The hallway was dark, dim. Her black attire made her skin glow in contrast.
            She took each step one at a time, both feet always meeting on the same step, much alike how she once went down those stairs as a child. Her fingers gripped the railing til her knuckles were white; her knuckles were cracked and oozed bright crimson. It took the better part of half an hour, but she got to the bottom of the stair case.
            The light was blinding. Everyone turned to face her at the bottom of the stairs. Their laughter fell silent, some jaws dropped. For a moment, some even swore that she could see them, but that was nonsense, right? A blind girl couldn’t see; much less a dying blind girl.
            For a long while, nobody said anything. They all just held onto this staring contest with the girl they’d long since left to lay. A toddler wobbled into the neutral ground between them. She wore a bright blue sundress, with a daisy in her hair. The blind girl looked down at her, a tear streamed down her cheek. The child ran to her, wrapping it’s small arms around her legs. One by one, the other blinked. Once. Twice. Everything was falling away. The walls melted into darkness,

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This one I actually did with a timer on, so it ended there. I’m not sure where it was headed; I thought maybe it was going to wake up to be some sort of strange dream. Or maybe the world’s end. I’m not quite sure. It’s not what I thought I’d end up writing when I started it, either. But alas! There is entry two of writing prompts and things. 

2:06am  |   URL: http://tmblr.co/ZGGU3q1Jgjwo6
  
Filed under: prompt writing free write 
June 24, 2014
1. Write about moving home

              Everyone always told me all these phrases about home. Home is where the heart is. Home is where your mind goes when it wanders. Some people would just say home is where you lay your head at night. As I grew up, I battled back and forth with every definition of home I found. My heart was in my chest, surely my chest wasn’t home; lovers come and go so often in life that surely they aren’t home either. Home always seemed like it was something that should be permanent. My train of thought has always been much like the way I shop; it meanders until I find the destination and what I was looking for. That being said, my mind was always wandering. So was home found in purple shoelaces, how the opposite gender dries off and that key I found in the sixth grade? I had my doubts.
             My house wasn’t always the best place to be. We lived in a nicer part of town, and the house, well, it was beautiful. I’ll always remember the crimson door, and the equally bright terror that hid behind it. The perfect white fence, the cheerful pansies and daisies that’d dance in the breeze. The broad porch and the wicker chair that saw three kids come and go, that caught the woman struck down by alcoholic rage.
              I had never wanted friends over; I was scared that they’d see it. See, Dad had a problem with the booze, and Mom was too blind to move on. There aren’t enough fingers and toes in the world to tally up the number of bruises I watched her carefully hide. The hollow-point smiles she gave the world, the cheery tone she had while discussing flowers, and children, and the PTA at every barbaque. It would take even more to mark down the number of bruises I struggled to keep covered during school. He was smart, I’ll give him that. He never went for the faces, always the chest, the sides, arms, stomach. I almsot wished I wasn’t so good at it. Maybe then, a teacher would notice. Someone would notice, would care, would stop it.
              When the time rolled around, I got out of there as fast as I could. Went off to some out of state community college and chased girls and degrees. Ended up with a Bachelors in Psychology. It wasn’t too long after that that I realized I hated psychology and just went off chasing girls and whimsies. Don’t fall down the rabbit hole, Alice.
Well, I sure fell down the rabbit hole. I refused to touch alcohol, but nothing stopped me from trying everything else I could get my hands. After the girl I’d been dating for the better part of a year dumped me, I wanted to drown. Meth opened that door.’
              It was two years, before I kicked it to the curb and wanted to make something of myself again. I started to paint. I painted that crimson door, and green green grass. Portraits of girlfriends past, and people too perfect to exist. I painted libraries, and daisies, and mother’s smiles. Someone noticed, and I made several pretty pennies selling my canvas. I got a side job, to pay for my paints and easels. Some small retail job.
              For a long, long time, I lived in my beat-up old Volkswagen. It’s stained backseat was my bed, my couch, my livingspace. The local Y was my shower. And I drove wherever caught my eye. I guess that’s how I ended up in Wichita. That’s how I ended up in a bookstore at the edge of town, how I ran into the girl carrying too many books.

              Today, I’m walking through a crimson door. There’s a little work that needs to be done, but we’ve got buckets of paint in the back of the car. We searched yardsales for weeks before we found the right couch, bassinet, you name it. She planted daises by the front porch. All these years running from home, chasing home, contemplating home. But home isn’t something that can be put into words. It’s that feeling of belonging, of safety and of warmth. It’s where the shadows can’t harm you, and everything just happens to work out, in the end.
              I set out on a path long ago, fearing a red door and hollow-point smiles. Today I walked through my own red door; smiles piercing through to the core of my being. Today, I moved home.

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Welcome to entry one of my free writing. Forgive any typos; wordpad only does so well at catching them. I originally started on something totally different; but this is what came out. Here’s what I originally started:

            It was strange, walking down this path again. So many years ago, or so it felt, I had traversed this walkway every day of my life. I could almost tell you the number of cracks in each block of cement, the location of every ant hill and of course, the way that earth felt between my toes. But then, that feels so far from now.
         I had left with a broad smile and even broader dreams. Everything I had decided I absolutely couldn’t part with was packed into a box, labled, and Tetris’d into a backseat or trunk. The passenger seat I had left empty, open for books, snacks, and whatever else I had found worthy of being a travel companion. After eighteen years of the same old same old, I was finally breaking out.

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Filed under: free write home 
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