Hair so Brown and Eyes so Blue

Hair so Brown and Eyes so Blue
A poem dedicated to my sister

Hi there,
Little girl,
With hair so brown
And eyes so blue.

Your voice,
So tiny,
Calls out in joy
As you reach for me.

Your fist,
So small,
Is barely large enough
To hold onto my finger. 



Hi there,
Little girl,
With hair so brown
And eyes so blue.

Your steps,
So light,
Are full of delight
As you walk my way.

You stubble,
You fall,
You learn to crawl
And then to dance about. 



Hi there,
Little girl,
With hair so brown
And eyes so blue.

Your voice,
It’s raised,
As you yell out
For someone to play with.

Your hair,
So soft,
Is in two braids
As you clutch your doll. 



Hi there,
Little girl,
With hair so brown
And eyes so blue.

You gulp,
You’re nervous,
You’re afraid of night
For next will come day.

You hold,
That violin,
So delicately in hands
That are shaking with fright. 



Hi there,
Little girl,
With hair so brown
And eyes so blue.

You pack,
Many bags,
Give your friends hugs
And ready for an adventure.

You leave,
With tears,
But face the world
With a mask of strength. 



Hi there,
Little girl,
With hair so brown
And eyes so blue.

You’ve come,
So far,
Along this long road
That is your lovely life.

You’ve grown,
You’ve changed,
You’ve learned the game
And are reaching another door. 



Hi there,
Little girl,
With hair so brown
And eyes so blue.

Very soon,
Too soon,
You will be graduated
And on your way again.

You’ll learn,
To crawl,
To walk and run
And even who you are. 


Hi there,
Little girl,
With hair so brown
And eyes so blue.

I am,
So very,
Very proud of you
And who you have become.

A joy,
It’s been,
To be your sister
As you’ve paved your way. 



Hi there,
Little girl,
With hair so brown
And eyes so blue.

Please remember,
Don’t forget,
Where ever life leads
I will always love you.  

Room 119

The following is a short story I wrote about my second home on campus, Room 119 of the Smith building. I spend more time in that room than anywhere else on campus and some of the most wonderful things take place in that room...some of the most thought provoking conversations. 

Room 119

            In a red-bricked building there are many rooms, but room 119 is one of the smallest. With walls as pale as week old snow and a ceiling with a thousand holes, it looks like nothing special. There’s no shine to it. No lustrous sparkle that makes it stand apart from the other rooms.

            119’s Once blue carpet is stained with the mud of many shoes. There’s no carpet cleaner brave enough to take on the armies of filth camping in the carpet’s hard fibers. Each day new armies are carried through the groaning old man of a door and are deposited upon the carpet. Vacuums attack it nightly, yet the original blue is still dusty.

            The chairs that sit in orderly lines are not the most uncomfortable in the building but they aren’t anything you’d want to sit in for more than a class period. Their desks are heavy, but bend under the weight of books. Their legs sturdy, but scars mark their silver surfaces. The fabric that covers the cushions is a purple too close to red to be violet, but too close to purple to be maroon. Blue and tan threads are visible within the fabric. Words are etched into the slate grey tops of the small desks. Some of the words have lines drawn through them, the dark ink from the pen used to carve them is still present in the depths of the lines.

            

            White boards cover the walls. Their surfaces cleaner than the ones they reest on, their silver edges appearing dull despite having recently been installed. The smart board is the newest item in 119, yet even it is not perfect. It’s an untrustworthy piece of technology, second only to the room’s computer, that often rebels against it’s controllers.

            The windows still function properly. They open without so much as a peep and let fresh air circulate through the menopausal room. The shades, however, were just as unreliable as the technology. It wasn’t that they rebelled, they just could no longer do their job properly. They weren’t as flexible as they once were; their bodies could only cover the windows so much. Even then, they would often give out and bounce back into their original fetal position after only a few minutes of covering the windows.

            

             Yes, 119 isn’t the prettiest of rooms, yet English students flock to it like eager grandchildren to their favorite grandparent. Backpacks are thrown at the feet of the chairs, books –heavy with knowledge –are piled upon the desks. The students don’t think twice about entrusting the weight of their books to the desks. Unlike the technology, the desks have never failed them. And, when the students take their seats, the room smiles.

            

             Those who know its worth, those who know each and every character in the room, those who have read beneath the flickering lights, have peered out its windows at lawnmowers and butterflies, have argued with the smart board, out smarted the computer, and cleansed the boards, have returned home.

            The room glows with beauty as its frequenters speak. Their colorful thoughts giving 119 the breath of purpose. 123 may be bigger, 200 over twice its size, 201 may have better chairs, and the room next to it may be the prettiest, but 119 has a special place in the hearts of its students. It’s beauty is as bright as a new penny to them. It’s beauty is immortal. 

The Shadow, Irritations, and How Today Was Great.

At eight am this morning I awoke with zero motivation. I contemplated skipping my first class just so I could catch an extra hour of sleep, what with me staying up until four the night before. Sadly, I hadn't stayed up because of some large Superbowl party that had lasted long into the night, but to do homework for the upcoming Monday. I detest Mondays. There is just something awful about them. Yet, as I reasoned with myself this morning, saying that skipping class was fine in order to get some more sleep, my inner voice decided to speak up and remind me of all the reasons why skipping class would be a bad idea.

"You'll miss important notes. You'll ruin your attempt at the extra credit for perfect attendance. You'll kick yourself later if you skip. You'll feel guilty all day. An hour of sleep isn't worth having to go through the trouble of locating reliable people to find out what happened in class. Besides, you don't have this class on Friday. You can sleep in then."

Needless to say, my inner voice won. Leaving me to the task of prying myself from the warmth of my blankets and dragging my sleep heavy  body down the ladder of the bunk bed I slept in. I wasn't too happy about leaving behind the warm plush blanket and black comforter as the cold encroached on my personal space. It was no use fighting the cold off, really it wasn't. No mater if I threw a hoodie on or my warmest coat I would still be cold during the walk from the building I reside in to the one my class was in.

When I got to class, however, I was pleased to be there. Not at first, but I did get there. As my professor droned on about a subject I have no interest in but must take (and pass) in order to graduate, I entertained myself by staring down at my notes and thinking over the day's schedule. My attention was drawn back to my professor, however, when he quoted Leroy Brownlow, saying, "There are times when silence has the loudest voice."

I can't even tell you why I liked that quote, but I did. I felt drawn to it, like it was some beautiful truth that I had never heard before. I didn't take much time to ponder over it, merely jotted it down in my notes and attempted to stay awake for the rest of the class. Staying awake wasn't really too hard, for the professor is an energetic speaker who has a way with words, but the content of his lecture wasn't something I cared to be listening to this morning.

As the day went on, I went about my Monday routine. Unfortuantly, I had a shadow of negativity tagging along with me for parts of it. This shadow, which was really a person, kept bringing me down. It brought up negatives about others, it contradicted everything I would say, it used a nickname that I absolutely hate, and then it lectured me on a topic that it had no right to...not that it should have been doing any of the negative activity. That topic, however, was a sore one for me. It's one that I absolutely hate hearing about...I say hearing because I never talk when it is brought up. It's better to stay silent if you have nothing good to say, right? Well, I have nothing good to say to anyone who starts lecturing me on my own eating habits. I have reasons for this that lay in the past and that I won't get into, but allow me to clear something up for anyone reading this.

If I know you, and you are reading this, here are two facts about my eating habits that you should know:

1) I'm not anorexic, don't even joke about me being that. I swear if you tell me I'm not eating enough I will be ticked at you for a decent amount of time. This is one of the few things that makes me livid and can keep me simmering for a while.

2) Don't ever tell me I'm eating too much, especially in the fruit and cheese category. I have a reason for eating the way I do. I'm hypoglycemic (not severely were I have to use insulin  but enough where I have to keep a large amount of sugar in my system) and when I eat a lot of fruits and cheese it's because I require the healthy sugars I get from them. They are the quickest way to get sugar into my system.

With those two things cleared up, allow me to continue. This post is not meant to be a rant about life, for I am pretty happy with my life. It is merely meant to be an update on my life. Now, let's continue...shall we?        

As the day went on, I decided to ignore the shadow. I busied myself with assigned readings and getting ready for my night class. I was barely on the internet throughout the daylight hours, instead spending my free time working on assigned readings, taking walks on a trail that runs around the campus, and having a much needed conversation with my amazing mother.

When the time for my night class came, I was ready. A three hour class with my favorite professor, and it's all about literature. I loved the time spent in the class. Though I didn't talk much in it, I enjoyed it. I'm more of a listener than a speaker in classes. I like hearing my fellow classmates' thoughts and, occasionally  throwing in one of my own. Listening to their individual ideas helps me with developing characters for my stories.

It is now 10:03 at night and I have accomplished everything I needed to today. Despite the facts that the shadow irritated me and that I got off to a rough start this morning, today has been glorious. I've stuck to my latest attempt at a health kick, am drinking my first Mountain Dew of the day, and feel overall pleased with where I am in life.

Today was a good day. God kept me safe, silent, and grateful through out all of today's hardships. I am thankful for that and praying the same occurs tomorrow. I  
  

The Woman In Red

Greetings readers!

In my last post I asked you a question. I showed you a picture of a red-robed figure in a sea of black-robed ones and asked you to consider what her story was. In this post I am presenting you with my version of her story. The part I am giving you is just a bit of what's to be a much longer story, so it lacks an ending. It is rather long though, this part, yet I do hope you enjoy it. This story is also being posted on my DeviantArt profile, located at: http://writingangel2010.deviantart.com/ . All future parts of this story will be posted there if you wish to continue reading this story. Now, on with the story!

The Woman in Red: Part One

Brilliant points of light hung in the vast darkness of the world’s top, their numbers as many as the sands below. A camel grunts into the stillness of the night, its tail swings behind it like a pendulum. A figure stands not far from the animal, its robes a brilliant shade of crimson. The fabric furled around the figure’s body, whipped by the harsh wind of the night. The figure’s face is covered so only their dark eyes can be seen. All other skin is hidden from view, and therefore protected from the stirring sand. The rough grains are picked up by the hands of the wind and are tossed about like a ball. Their tiny, yet sharp, surfaces leave temporary marks around the figure’s eyes as they sting its exposed flesh.

           

A bag sits, limp and half-empty, at the figure’s feet. Its contents are light and the dark brown fabric that cradles them is pushed aside by a particularly strong gust of wind. The bleached beams of the moon catches on the surface of one of the bag’s newly exposed objects, causing the figure to catch sight of a shiny glint of gold. In the night, the light is distracting, and the figure bends to correct the fabric encasing the objects. Once again hidden, they are no bother and the figure straightens, its eyes returning to the seemingly never-ending heavens.

                The figure’s eyes close as they hear the sound of hooves on sand. It’s a sloppy sound, like clacking that has a slippery edge to it, or a fish flopping about helplessly on the sandy shores of a river. There are at least a dozen horses by the greatness of the sound, and they call out in the night. The figure’s camel gives start; shaking its head in protest. It is a new pet of the figure and has yet to grow use to its strong and sturdy counterparts. Its feet paw at the rough earth, stumbling backwards before the figure reaches out to grab hold of its reigns. Steadying the animal, the figure kneels to retrieve the bag and places it in one of the sacks secured to the camel’s back. The sacks weren’t nearly as heavy as the figure had hoped, for it had been a night of slim pickings and shadow darting.

                As the horses race across the sand, the distance between them and the figure is quickly diminished. Their hooves throw sand as they dig into the loose earth, creating a haze around them as they travel. A dark robed figure is seated upon each horse, their eyes and hands being the only flesh showing. The blades of their swords reflect the land around them as the moon’s beams play upon them. The hilts of the weapons secured to the robed figures by thick cords woven into belts.

                The great beasts come to halt behind the first figure’s camel and the lead rider demounts his stead. His beast is as dark as his robes, which bellow in the wind as he outstretches his arms.

                “Thank goodness you’re safe,” he, the lead rider, declares as he embraces the first figure. The frame of the first figure is much slimmer than his and his muscles seem to fold around it as he embraces it in a hug. Pulling back, he holds the figure away at arm’s length, his large hands resting lightly on the figure’s slim shoulders. His deep brown eyes, scared around the edges from a past event, lock with the strong soft-edged ones of the figure. “I thought for sure we had lost you. I was prepared to scourer the city for you if you weren’t here.”

                “Haydar,” the figure spoke, its voice very much feminine and drawing out the last syllable of her companion’s name. The tone she had taken was flat, devoid of emotion but bursting with fact, as she removed the man’s hands form her shoulders. “You knew I would be here.”

                “I assumed,” Haydar admitted, his voice low and gruff. “With you it is hard to know anything.”  There was a hint of a smile in his eyes and the one in red scoffed. “After how tonight went, I wouldn’t have been surprised if you had gone back into the city. Our loot tonight is light.”

                “And the guards are heavy. I’ll be glad when the Prince’s birthday is over and the normal patrols are returned. This doubling of the guards makes me nervous. With all of their torches there’s not enough shadow to hide in.”

                “Give it a week and they’re sure to leave. A birthday can only be celebrated for so long.”

                “This one is being celebrated longer than usual.”

                “He is a Prince.”

                The Crimson figure’s eyes trailed to the riders behind Haydar. Their eyes were trained on their surroundings, watching the sand and city walls for any sign of trouble. Their backs were straight, one of each of their hands gripped the reigns of their horses tightly while their other hands rested on the hilt of their curved swords.  They were on edge, that much was obvious, and the Crimson figure nodded to herself. Silently agreeing with her own thought that they should remove themselves from the open land.

                Haydar was still speaking, but his words fell on deft ears. The crimson figure turned towards her camel and took hold of its reigns. As she spotted the light of a torch near the city’s entrance, she said, “We need to leave.”

                Haydar couldn’t protest as his eyes too slid over the moving light. The guard holding it was pacing the arched entrance. If he stared hard enough into the desert he’d be sure to spot them, for they hadn’t traveled far from the wall. Haydar helped the first figure secure her camel’s reigns to his horse before mounting his stead. Holding out a hand, he helped the red robed figure onto his horse. Her body slid behind his as she threw a leg over the beast’s broad back.

                “Hey! You there!” the guard called.

                “We’ve been spotted,” one of the riders spoke.

                “Thieves!” the guard poked his head inside the entrance and yelled. The thumping of stampeding guards could be heard and Haydar cursed under his breath. 

                “Leave the camel,” the crimson figure declared.

                “But it has half our…”    

                “It’ll slow us down!” she interrupted another rider and reached for the knife secured to her waist.

                “That loot’s the only thing that made tonight worth…”

                “You dare interrupt our queen?” Haydar challenged the disobedient rider.

                The woman cut the camel free just as a team of horses raced out of the city entrance. “Go!”

                Haydar and the riders didn’t offer protest as they commanded their horses to make haste. Across the sand they raced, leaving a cloud of dust in their wake, until they reached the caves of Judar. Haydar allowed his thief queen down from the horse at the entrance to a cave before he and the riders took off into the cave’s depths. 

The cave in which they dwelled was really a series of caves connected together by stone halls. The maze like structure naturally sectioned off areas into rooms. Each Rider was granted their own room, plus there was one for the horses, another for their treasure, and another for gatherings. The actual entrance of the cave was left bare, forcing one to venture further into its depths to find any sign of those who dwelled there.

The red robed woman swiftly made her way to her designated quarters, pulling at her headpiece as she went. The fabric constricting her hair was proving troublesome as it caught on the pin holding her hair in place. Muttered words about the fabric’s future murder tumbled from her lips as she pulled at the fabric. Finally, the fabric gave way and she was able to unwrap it from her head.

Black waves tumbled over her shoulders and back, the pin meant to hold them in place dangling from strands of hair that had wrapped themselves around it. The pin –gold with tiny rubies embedded down it -swung in front of her brown eyes and she let out a huff at the small object. Folding the red fabric over her arm, she reached up to untangle the pin from her hair as she entered her quarters.

She tossed the fabric onto the wooden chair by the jagged entrance to her room and tugged the pin free from its entrapment. She crossed the room silently and placed the pin in a wooden box that rested on two crates that served as her vanity. A mirror, made by one of the riders and gifted to her, rest atop the crates as well. Its wooden frame was stained a dark color and runes were engraved in it, their color much lighter than the stain used on the wood, for they cut into the very core of the frame’s wood.

As she passed behind her dressing screen, Her fingers worked at the belt securing her outer robes to her body. Once the belt was removed, the crimson robes fell off her frame as easily as water gliding through fingers. She gathered up the robes and tossed them over the screen before exiting, wearing a pair of black trousers, a red tunic, and a weaved belt. She didn’t bother to remove the dusty red slippers from her feet as she placed her knife upon the crate vanity.

“Adilah,” Haydar’s heavy steps echoed through her room as he entered. They were strong, precise steps; the steps of one who has seen much battle. He too had removed his outer robes and head dress, leaving him in a pair of black trousers and a tunic to match. His shoes were a pair of black boots and raven locks framed his face. There was the shadow of a beard upon his face, starting at his ears and crossing beneath his nose and chin.

“Haydar,” she greeted with a returning of his name. “I trust you have spoken to Esam about his mistake tonight.”

 “It has been dealt with. He will not speak against you again.”

“The trouble with new recruits is that they don’t understand my role as their leader. They always think they can speak against me, override my commands.”

“You must forgive them,” Haydar reasoned. “They aren’t use to obeying women.”

“You’re saying that if I was born a man they would heed my every order?”

“They would obey, yes, but they would still question you within their own minds.”

“Do you question me?”

“Don’t ask me silly questions.”

A tinkling laugh bubbled from Adilah’s throat and a smile graced her lips. Dancing across the room, she fell upon the piles of silk pillows that served as her bed. She fell silent, her mind wandering as Haydar launching into a lecture about how loyal he was to her and how she would be in the wrong if she ever questioned his loyalty. After letting the man ramble for a few minutes, she suddenly voiced her thoughts.

“Imagine, celebrating a birthday for a whole week,” she wondered aloud.

“Are you still thinking about that?” Haydar questioned exasperatedly.

“I couldn’t stand it! All those parties, the feasts, the long boring hours spent changing clothes for every meal, and having all those people throwing themselves at my feet. It’d be horrible.”

“Is there a point in lying to yourself?”

“I think I’d kill myself before the end of the week. Probably jump off a balcony…or maybe the chef would murder me.”

“You know you’d love the attention.”

“ You think he’s ever thought of poisoning the Prince? The chef, I mean. Do you think he’s ever been tempted to slip a bit of poison or a bad herb into the Prince’s dish?”

“I’d wager that he has.”

“He should.”

“That’s your grudge against the sultan talking. Isa, himself, has never done you wrong.”

“Only because we’ve never met. I’m sure he’s just like his father.”

“I’ve met Isa, Adilah, and he’s nothing like his father.”

“Forgive me for not believing you.” Silence fall upon the duo and Adilah reached up to braid a piece of her hair. As she worked at the braid, she could feel the weight of Haydar’s eyes on her. His gaze made her nervous and she quickly attempted to rid herself of the feeling. “Like his father or not, he’s still a royal pain.”

“You only say that because he has what you want.”

“Someday, Haydar. Someday we’ll be rich beyond belief and everyone in the kingdom will know our names. People will travel the world to bask in our presences.”

“People already know our names; The Woman in Red and her Dark Riders. We’re sure to be the subjects of tomorrow’s stories. We always are after a looting.”

“Tomorrow’s stories aren’t something I’ll be proud of,” she sighed, dropping the braid so it fell alongside the rest of her hair, which was spread out across the pillows behind her. “Tonight wasn’t a good night for us. I’m sure they’ll be of how The Woman in Red is losing her touch. They’ll see tonight for what it was, a desperate attempt to make some sort of profit this month.”

“You should give us more credit. It’s not easy to steal when there are guards posted on every corner.”

“True…”she mused. “But, still! Tonight was a pathetic example of what we do! All those newcomers that are here for the Prince’s birthday will have little fear of us.”

“What does it matter if they fear us? We’re not going to be targeting them.” After a pause and a glance of mischief from Adilah, he added, “Are we?”

“Oh, we most certainly are,” a sly smile crossed her lips. Her slender form twisted so her stomach was pressed against the pillows beneath her and she looked up at Haydar, who was standing in the center of her room, with a glint of trouble dancing in her eyes. “Are you going to challenge my plan?”

“We’ve been over this. I’m your loyal friend. What you say I will do.”

Her mocha hued hands played with the gold tassels on one of the pillows. “I’ll never doubt you.”

“If I may ask, when do you plan on looting the foreigners?”

“Tomorrow night. It’s the night of Prince Isa’s birthday and the grandest party will be held. It’ll be easy for us to slip in undetected, find the rooms of those visiting, and take what we please.”

“How do you plan on us getting in?”

“That’s the easiest part of all,” she all but purred.

“I’m not going to like this. Am I?” he sighed.

“Not at all,” she assured before slipping off her pillows and standing. Grabbing a fist full of Haydar’s tunic, she twirled around him once before pulling him towards the entryway.  “Come, my friend, we must speak of the plan in the presence of the others.”

“They won’t like it either.”

“On the contrary, I’m sure some of them will enjoy it.”

“Now I’m really worried.”

Her chime-like laugh was the only response he got as she continued to lead him through the caves and towards his fellow riders. 

What is Her Story?

As a writer I believe that everyone and everything has a story. The homeless man in the alley, the worn and scratched alter, even the faded curtains hanging in a kitchen have a story to tell. What theses stories are exactly we may never know. The homeless man may tell you his, you may have seen some of the events that took place at the alter, or you may have been there when those curtains were first purchased, but it's impossible for us to know the story behind everything and everyone. As a writer, though, I like to try.

When I'm at a cemetery, I look at all those tombstones and wonder who the people buried there were. I wonder where they lived, what they did for a living, who they loved, who loved them, and how they saw the world. Sometimes I wonder about the state of their souls.

There's an alter in a church, in the town I spent most my life in, that has so many scars that I always wondered how it got them. Were they from someone's keys? A coin biting into it's surface? Did a lady with freshly manicured nails carve into it? I'll never know all the stories behind the scars that mark the alter's surface or all the tears that have been shed on it, but I still wonder.

Wondering is one of the gifts us humans are blessed with. Imagining is another. When you combine both you can get some pretty interesting stories. People watching is one activity that can use both of theses gifts. When one people watches, or at least when I do, one wonders what each person's story is and then they attempt to figure out the person's story by creating one within their mind. This activity, or creative art, can be applied to something other than people. Like photographs.

You may be wondering where I'm going with this. Well, I'm about to tell you.

A few days ago I stumbled upon a picture that caught my eye instantly. Something about the photo had me wondering right away. I started asking myself what's happening in this picture, and then soon changed to asking, who is the woman in this picture? What is she doing? Where is she going? Why do I feel like there's an internal sadness to her?

I begun writing a story about this photo and it took on a life of it's own. What I meant to be a short story has now shown potential to be something more. It has found it's way to my writings-that-I'm-currently-working-on list.

This is the photo that started my most recent story:

After beginning to form my own story about the above picture, I began asking people around me this simple question: Who is she?  These are some of the answers I received

~She's at a monastery, seeking forgiveness.

~She's like Van Hellsing. 

~She lives in a place where only black clothing is allowed and doesn't like it. So she's rebelling by wearing red. 

~She's running from something.

Now, my question to you is the same as to them. I want to encourage you to look deeper into the photo. Look at her, at those around her, at the color of her attire compared to the others', and ask yourself who is she?

The Awe Some-ness of Christmas

T'was the night before Christmas, and all through the house
Every creature was stirring, even the mouse.

Don't worry, I'm not going to launch into a rewrite of the famous, Night Before Christmas. Although, that seems to be a popular thing for writers to put their own spins on during the holiday season. I have to admit, I did think of giving into temptation and rewriting it as well, but that's not really what I felt like I should write about. Instead of rewriting the ever popular poem, I'm just going to tell you about my Christmas.

Christmas has always been a big thing for my family. Every year my dad makes sure to inform the household that the tree doesn't go up until the day after Thanksgiving...and every year he gets ignored. Actually  in truth, he was listened to until my siblings and I discovered that we have the ability to pull out the Christmas decorations ourselves. By that point, my dad didn't want to pull out the boxes and began saying, "I guess we can put it up today -Thanksgiving -but you kids have to get all the boxes out." It is always done. Seriously, it never fails. The tree is always up by Thanksgiving night.

The decorating of the tree marks the beginning of the Christmas season. After that everything Christmas attacks the house. Christmas music, Christmas cookies, snow, hot chocolate, Christmas movies, prayers for snow days...etc...etc...the list goes on and on. Yet, it is not the onslaught of theses things, nor the tree, nor the gifts, that makes Christmas important for me. There is something that occurs every year possible that is the reason I look forward to Christmas...and that's the annual gathering of my family on Christmas Eve.

On Christmas Eve, if possible, my family -on my mom's side -meets up at my Grandma's home. This is a tradition that has been going on since before I was born. When I was a little brat, the gathering was rather small. It was my parents, my two aunts, my two uncles, my grandparents, my two cousins, and then my sister and myself. Now though, our family has grown. It has gone from twelve attendants eighteen.

This year everyone was able tot attend the gathering, I must say it was one of the best ones yet. Christmas is one of the tender times in my life and I'm sure it's safe to say it's the same for my oldest cousin. She and I are roughly four months apart and this holiday will always be near to our hearts. Our grandpa made Christmas.

There are no words that I could use that could accurately describe how wonderful of a man our grandpa was. He is the reason that Megan -my cousin -and I consider Christmas to be one of the most precious holidays.

There are many things I could go into detail about when it comes to why this Christmas was so great, but allow me to tell them to you in a list. Here are some of the reasons I love Christmas Eve and my family:

1. A Walk Down Memory Lane:
This year we did something new. We took out a bunch of old home videos of past Christmases and watched them. It was both entertaining and tearful, as my grandpa is no longer with us and I couldn't help but remember all the good times I had with him when I was little.

2. My Uncles:
My uncles are characters. When they are around there is never a dull moment.

3. My Cousins:
I have a lot more cousins now then I did back when I was there ages -think 11 and under here -and each and everyone of them have such unique personalities. This contributes to the next thing...

4. Blending of Personalities:
It was interesting to watch my family this year. Why? Because we are all different ,there's no doubt about that, and it was fun to watch all of our personalities interact.

Sigh...my words seem to be failing me at the moment. I wanted to tell you how wonderful my Christmas Eve and Christmas was, but I seem to be unable to find the desired words. The only word I can think of to describe it is awesome.

And when I use 'awesome', I really mean Awe Some. It was two days full of awing moments. From looking around at my younger cousins and thinking, "That use to be us,"...to watching home videos of our parents when they were our age and thinking, "That could be us,"...to looking around at my uncles, aunts, and parents and thinking, "That will be us,"...to the beautiful morning that was my Christmas day where my immediate family gathered around the tree...to the current moments of us all doing our own things but still enjoying the other's company. There has been no rush theses past two days. No worry has entered my mind. All I've cared about, all my family has seemed to care about, is spending time with each other. And that, my friends, has been Awe Some.

There is truly no greater gift on earth than time well spent with family. I love each and every one of them and, if any of them are reading this, I just want to say thank you. Thank you for being part of my family. I love you all and will cherish all of the memories I have of all of you.

Merry Christmas, everyone. If you haven't found time for some holiday Cheer yet, there's still a few hours left in the day (At least there is where I reside) and I encourage you to do so. Don't let this Christmas pass by.

Everything but Studying

Picture this, the soft glow of white Christmas lights cling to the brick of a dorm room wall while Christmas music plays on both computers in the room. A Christmas movie, about a little girl asking Santa for someone to compliment her mommy, plays softly in the background. Neither girl that dwells in the room are paying much attention to the movie. Their eyes and ears only take in enough of it to know the plot. They are otherwise preoccupied.

English and Criminal Justice assignments scatter the desks of theses two girls. Documents are open on their laptops, the insertion cursors blinking in an impatient manner...urging them to get at least a few words down. Yet, with espresso in the coffee pot and pop in the fridge, the caffeine in the girl's systems are much too high for them to just sit and work on dull assignments. They knew those cups of caffeine were a bad idea, but they had seemed like such a good one at the time. They knew taking those naps would only make them stay up latter, but they were so low on sleep that they craved a couple hours of dream land.

With a blue and silver themed tree winking at them, the girls giggle over nothing and everything. the glittery snowflakes hanging from the tree capture their attention every once in awhile, reminding them of the fact that they have oh-shiny-disorder and should probably unplug the tree while attempting to study. Yet, the lights, the snowflakes, the bulbs and bells are all too pretty to miss out on. 

Distractions, distractions, they're everywhere and the girls are more than willing to take part in them.

"I have that Olympic paper to write."

"I have that portfolio to work on."

"Let me braid your hair."

"Okay."

It's funny how girly these two girls turn when assignments need to be done. With due dates fast approaching  they become increasingly aware of the state of disarray their hair is in, of the chips in their nail polish, of the disorganized mess of hair products and makeup on their dressers...the urge to ignore their homework and do their hair is strong. So strong they dare not resist.

Of course, there is only so much time one can spend on makeup and hair. Soon they are seated back in front of their assignments. Yet, a few moments later they decided that the dorm room is too dirty to work in. Time to make the beds, to make sure all laundry is in the washer/dryer, to organize the closets, to wash the fridges...but, the room wasn't dirty enough to keep them away for long and they are once again returning to their assignments.

"How's your paper coming?"

"I have a sentence. You?"

"A paragraph."

"I'm tired."

"Me too."

"I'll make more coffee."

And so more caffeine is placed in their systems and they have yet to accomplish any of their assignments. They now have a spotless dorm room, perfect hair and makeup, uncluttered desks, and a coffee pot that's working overtime, but there is still a pile of assignments to be done. Coffee is made and they attempt, yet again, to be productive.

"Now how far are you?"

"I need 200 more words."

"I've reached half a page...I think we deserve a break."

"Facebook."

"Fanfiction."

"DeviantArt."

"Youtube."

"Blogging."

"Amazon."

Minutes pass and turn into an hour. One raises a question about the time of a final. The other checks her planner. They become aware of just how close their deadlines are and...

"We need to get back to work."

"I've got to at least knock out this part tonight. Otherwise I won't have enough time to get it completed."

"Uh oh. I lost my book."

"Did you check under the bed?"

"I found it...It was behind my pillow."

"How'd it get there?"

"I dunno."

"Okay, okay, back to work."

With minds set on finally accomplishing something in the form of assignments  the girls take their places for a night of homework.