A Hundred Delicate Petals

Words

           I have always loved the look of this font. The little diamonds in place of periods, the simple elegance that shouts “I have a tale to tell” more than a million words placed in a row. Maybe it’s that I’ve read so many entrancing stories and adored them so much, the font now holds a permanent place in my heart. Strange, isn’t it?

But this is not about a font, or diamonds, or a story, or a strange obsession.

This is my million words, placed in a row.

~

What else is there to do with words but tell a story? A simple sentence can tell a story as well as the two-hundred-eighty-three pages of a novel.

I’m just an average girl. A country girl, for that matter. Country girls are the girls who know the secret – where the raw beauty in wildness is found. If you were raised in the city, you just don’t have the appreciation, the understanding of the beauty of the sunlight through the trees that we do.

I make average mistakes. Or do I? To you, they might be average, but to me these mistakes were earth-shattering, confidence-destroying, heart-breaking mistakes. What may not be important to you is important to me, and to hear my million words in a row, you’ll have to open up your soul. There are words that talk, and then there are words that sing. There are words that speak to the brain, words that speak to the heart, and words that sing to the soul.

I have heard the song of the words, and I want you to hear it too.

~

The first step. What is the first step? Even I don’t know. You know when people claim that something you don’t want to do is “part of the experience” and you absolutely must do it? Swallow your fear and go do it. If you’re not afraid, you can’t have courage. I don’t really know where I’m going – and with that there’s both a choking fear and a wild exultation.

I imagine that this feeling is like standing on the edge of a cliff and seeing a beautiful, rushing river winding peacefully below. Should I jump? Or should I find a way down the cliff, barefoot?

If I ever walked down a precarious path, I’d do it with feet bare, hair swinging over my face, my hand running over the smoothness of the cliff wall beside me. There’s something about running my hand over smooth things that gives me a peaceful feeling; like I could fly.

Could I fly?

~

It's like raising my hand to answer a question that I'm only halfway sure I know, in a packed crowd of Einsteins.  

Cruella De Vil (My Side of the Story)

Cruella

Elizabeth Anne Grey 

Let’s just get one thing straight, for starters. I love puppies.

They are so cute and loveable and warm and cuddly. I know, you don’t believe me, but maybe you will after I explain. Yes, my name is Cruella De Vil. But I’m not evil like everyone seems to think. I’m actually a very nice person, if you get to know me. One of my faults is my temper. I’m getting ahead of myself, though. Let me start at the beginning.

To say that I’ve been misunderstood would be a shocking understatement.

It all started with a cold, wet, gray morning on a dirty, abandoned city street. Even the fog clouding the street was dirty and depressing. My mother promised me in a stiff, nasal tone that I would be happier with other children to play with in this brick place. All I wanted was to go back to the safety of the shabby, dark rooms where Mabel (my mother) lived with two of her loud friends.

Mabel told me I could have a bed all to myself and clean clothes every morning here. I longed to go back to the dank building I called home, wrapped in the dirty fur coat I played with every day. The coat doubled as a bed when Mabel came home drunk and locked me out of her bedroom.

Inside a very white room, with desks and chairs in it and a chalkboard covering one wall, a short skinny woman looked me up and down, disgust settling on the wrinkles of her face like the muddy puddles running into the street corners between the cobblestones outside. She turned to Mabel.

“What is she wearing?”

            “It’s one of my old dresses,” Mabel answered, staring down at the woman defiantly and teetering on her heels. “She’s eight. Will you take her?”

            “We take every charity case we can, yes.” The woman spat out the words as if they were mouthfuls of rotten food. I cringed. Mabel gave me a quick glare and a chin-up gesture.

            The Woman let out a sharp whistle that hurt my ears. I hung onto Mabel’s hand as tightly as I could, hoping by some miracle she’d change her mind. Surprisingly, she didn’t stop me and bore my grip on her hand patiently.

            Another woman, taller and stockier, hurried up to us. She had a pen and a few papers clutched in hands that shook, as she handed them to The Woman.

            “Sign here. You there” I flinched as her sharp eyes bored into mine, like shards of glass- “go with her.”

            The stocky woman held out her hand, and I studied her disdainfully. She tried to smile, but her forehead was stuck in a worried frown. My heart was beating fast. Fear rose its demonic head inside me. Mabel took a long look at me.

            “Hold on a sec,” she commanded The Woman, and walked me back outside. Hope rose like a fragile bubble, and I threw my arms around her when she kneeled down on the filthy stones, getting her faded dress even dirtier. I knew the truth, but I tried to ignore it. For a tiny moment, she let me bury my head on her shoulder and breathe deeply of her familiar smell. 

             She pushed me away and gave me a hard, cold stare, grasping my shoulders fiercely.

“Listen, you.” Mabel never could remember names. “You gotta be good here, ya’know. My own mom dumped me at one of these places when I was even younger than you.” She glanced down, grimacing to herself. “It was awful, but I survived.” She faced me, and gave me a chin-up gesture.

            “Life ain’t always fair. It’s a game, kid. You gotta learn how to play it to survive. Got me?” Her voice had hardened and her eyes were empty and blank, and I was suddenly terrified. She stood up again abruptly, brushing at the wet, dark stains on her dress. Taking my hand without even looking at me, she marched back up the steps with me in tow and signed the papers three minutes later.

            Dodging the grasp of both women, I ran to the grimy window and watched her walk away, back straight, tripping and stumbling on her heels. I never saw Mabel again. 

       Orphanages are living hell. 

The Photo

The photo is cold to the touch;

I leave a fingerprint

as if to say

I have been here

Memories caught in motion

thoughts in color

stiff, unmoving

I look at them again,

sliding the chilly paper through my fingers

a sigh in my throat

the edges are wrinkled

from being taken out of the book 

and put back in,

so many times

as I quietly think to myself

this is all I have left

  laughter I will never hear the same again

smiles that melted like snowflakes on my gloves

the feel of tiny hands holding mine

the eyelashes fluttering in sleep

the soft voice singing lullabies

cannot be captured in a photograph

a piece of paper

but

all hope is not lost

 I have captured them with the heart

 I wrote this today, when my heart was heavy. Loss is hard but hope is greater.  

Inner Music

"To me, writing isn't what it's all about, but the inner music the words make." -Truman Capote

Those simple words are what started this blog. 

My "diary" is going to be made up of little bits and pieces of me - 

and the way words

slide into place beside each other 

like notes on a page
and music from a piano.

This is me.
Welcome.