Of Promises and Celestial Comets

I know it has been a while since my last post. A year maybe. Or two? I don't even know. All I know is that it is 1:23 in the morning, and I want nothing more than to share a part of me with the world. 

I started this piece about a year ago as a few thoughts on how I hate breaking the many promises I make. Sometimes I get so frustrated with myself that I'm tempted to ban promises from my life completely. For just a second, I thought that might solve all my problems, but I know as soon as I thought it that I couldn't believe it.

When I was on my LDS mission in Mexico, they asked us to contact ten people a day and share a brief ten- to twenty-second message about any principle of the gospel of Christ. Many missionaries refused to do it. Some would go weeks without talking to anyone, but I just couldn't let myself sit back every single day and do absolutely nothing. So instead, I gave it everything I had to talk to those random people. With time, I came to revere those sets of twenty seconds, those brief instances, because for just a moment, they stopped, looked me in the eyes, and listened. I must have talked to hundreds of people. Now, do I really believe they still remember exactly what I said to them? Of course not, but I do believe that somehow each contact, each word of hope and encouragement made a small ripple that would disturb the still seas of mediocrity and fear. 

I am compelled to believe that somehow, no matter who we are, how we worship, or where we are in this world that every promise we keep can be a force for good, for trust, and for humanity. 

May we keep our promises and heal the world one ribbon at a time. Enjoy.

Of Promises and Celestial Comets

I told her I’d make them dinner. That’s all I did. You wouldn’t think it would be a big deal. You might think it’s only a little food. All you have to do is buy something edible at the store, and maybe turn on the stove or even the oven if you’re feeling gutsy. I mean, what’s the worst that could happen? Well, that’s just it. The minute those words leave your lips, “I will cook dinner for you,” something in the cosmos reacts and a simple dinner becomes so much more complicated than that. Everything changes because you made a promise.

A promise by itself is harmless. It’s nothing really. Just something pretty and fun to think about like the gold watch you would definitely buy if you had the money. But when you throw people into the mix . . . well, it’s like I said. Complicated.

Because what happens if you change your mind? Or you remember you don’t know how to cook anything? Or they decide they don’t want your dinner because you only cook with SPAM and they hate SPAM. What happens if a comet falls from the sky and into your kitchen diminishing it to a gaping hole in the ground? It’s hard to keep promises you make with people because you never know what’s going to happen. To them. To you. To the kitchen. There are just too many variables. And that’s for a small promise. I mean how hard is it really to make a dinner for someone? Not hard at all. Yeah, until you promise you will, and then the world caves in on every food-making utensil you own.

 Sometimes I wonder why I do it. I don’t know why I promise people things I don’t know I will be able to do. Really, what was I thinking? Dinner? I could have bailed on the whole thing and saved the world its cosmic trouble. I could have easily fled the country. Or maybe hijacked a space shuttle. I mean my grandparents live in Houston, how hard could it be? Or I could have taken the less dramatic route and told those girls I got a sudden bout of Lyme disease. I mean that stuff gets around, right?

But the truth is that I didn’t do any of those things. I didn’t run, commit any felonies, or contract any surprise infectious diseases. I bought the food, cooked it on the day I said I would, and we all ended up having an enjoyable time.

I kept my promise.

I just feel sorry for the family of four that got the stray comet.

◊

I think I was six or so the first time I saw the ribbons. My sisters, 4 and 8 years old, were in the other room fighting about who knows what. Probably Barbie dolls and the unalienable right to equal room space. They were probably dividing the room down the middle with scotch tape at that very second. I don’t hold it against them though. It could have just as easily been me in there duking it out.

There was something special about that moment though. I was certainly glad not to have to worry about whatever they were yelling about. Honestly, the only unalienable rights I was concerned with at that time were the rights to eat food off the floor and sneak fudge cookies at night when my mom was asleep. But that day, I had a thought I’d never had before, and it wasn’t about sisters, fudge cookies, or even floor food. I realized that I was tired of fighting. Tired of hearing it, seeing it, and doing it. It was somehow everywhere all the time. And I asked myself a question: “What if no one ever fought again?”

 It was a question made out of the curiosity and naivety of a young mind. It was a foolish and ridiculous thought, something that can never happen. But I didn’t understand that. So I humored myself and pictured a world where my parents never fought and comets kept to themselves in the outer realm of the universe. And then I did something I don’t think I was really even conscious of.

I opened up the heavy screen door and walked outside to the back porch. Sunlight probably shined through the holes in the wooden overhang my dad made when he still lived with us. I walked out past the porch and wind chime into the Texas sun where St. Augustine grass flowed like furry, green seas from my feet to my childhood swing set and the fifty-foot cotton tree in the corner of the back yard.

I knelt in the grass, dug a hole, and pulled a bright red ribbon from the skin in my wrist. But it wasn’t the cheap stuff you get at Walmart; it was the kind made of fine silk meant for kings. I pulled it out and it held fast to me, like a piece of yarn pulled from a spool. I marveled at its brilliance and workmanship, and my eyes danced at its grandeur. If my mother would have looked outside, she would have seen nothing but her little boy playing with invisible string and invisible dirt, and it was alright like that because no one needed to see to make it real. As I put that ribbon in the Earth and covered it with dirt, I made the first promise I never had to make. I told myself that I would do what I could to make it all alright, to make the world stop fighting forever, and I meant it somehow.

◊

Well, life went on, I got older, and I completely forgot about that ribbon, even though it stuck to me like one of those pieces of food on your face that you can’t feel, but everyone can see. You forget about it because you can’t see it, but no one ever says anything because, really, it’s your face and not theirs and you have every right to have food stuck to it if you want.

You see I didn’t understand something about promises back when I was six. Once you say you’ll do something, you can’t undo what you said you’d do. It can’t be reversed. Like I said before, when you make a promise to someone else, to anyone or anything else, something changes. You connect to them. Forever. Then you have two choices: you keep your promise or you break it. And when you break it, it’s broken.

Broken like men and women that work their whole lives for nothing but food and hope.

Broken like the soft, still bodies falling from two torn towers mixed with blood and jet fuel.

Broken like good men who once fought for their country.

All those broken promises dangle from our arms and legs and curl around our bodies like overgrown vines that have never been trimmed. I think they’ll wrap around us like mummies until we can’t see or move or feel much of anything at all—only broken ribbons and the occasional comet.

◊

We do try to avoid the comets, though. Some people spend their entire lives looking up to see if they can dodge a few, but you can’t dodge what you can’t see. Sometimes they just come out of nowhere and hit you square in the face while you’re cleaning the fish tank. Then, the next thing you know, you’re lying on your back on the burnt remains of what was your beautiful house, and the charred corpses of your fish are strewn about you like the glitter on a first-grade valentine. And the only thing you can do is look up at the bright stars and wonder, “What the heck?”

“I can’t come back, Alex. I can’t until next year. I just don’t think this is gonna work,” my girlfriend said. Her black hair wrapped around her delicate features, and her eyes were somehow bright in the darkness. It would be alright, I thought. We dreamed together, planned a future together, and most of all we loved each other.

“I’ll always love you,” she told me once. I believed her then. I believed her because people don’t say things they don’t mean. They don’t say they’ll do things they don’t intend to do. I suppose I thought that that one promise could bind us together, and I hoped that it would make us something beautiful.

But always is a long time.

She lived in another country, and the travel costs and phone bills were starting to add up. Even then, I told her I’d make it work. I had spent at least a thousand dollars on that relationship, but for real love, money was nothing to me for her, so what was a few thousand more? What was everything I had for her? I was willing to do anything. I’d make it alright because I loved her, too. So she paused and said, “Alex, I don’t love you anymore,” and time laughed in my face as the seconds of the world thundered on.

Just like that, the comet had come and gone, and there was nothing I could do but stare up at the sky and wonder.       

◊

Sometimes I look down at the broken ribbons attached to me, and it’s a hideous sight. I look like some hybrid freak between a Furby and Medusa’s head. Some aren’t my fault. Others are. But together they weigh me down and steal my freedoms so that I can’t even eat off the floor anymore. Then, I look down at that forgotten, unbroken ribbon that is still connecting me to the earth and to the world, and it looks the same as when I buried it in the ground years ago. I feel shame and I wonder why it’s not like all the rest.

That’s when I see another ribbon.

This one is thick and strong and comes out of my chest and up into the sky until it disappears among the clouds. I’ve made so many promises to God throughout my life, but I meant that one more than any other I have ever made. I was on my knees beside my bed that night aching with the pain of a dying man for the most precious part of me. Some people don't believe you can break a soul, yet mine sat cracked and crumbling between my fingertips. I cried out to my God because I didn’t know what else to do, so he reached down through the planets and comets and all that cosmic crap that makes our lives miserable and he healed me.

And as tears flowed quietly down my cheeks, I promised would serve him. 

                                                  Forever.

I said it and I meant it. No one else made me do it. So we did the unthinkable, Him and I. We made a promise. And I witnessed the creation of immortality before my very eyes. Now, that one promise means more to me than any other that I have ever made because even when I break my promises with Him, I look up in incomprehensible awe at that ribbon that still shines like a burning pillar in the night. I look up because when I do, He helps me see hidden ribbons I made long ago. They are just as perfect and unbroken as the one He made for me. And every time, I don’t understand how I’ve never seen them before. He opens my eyes, and ribbons, like the ones from that dinner I made, are shooting all over.

To the left.

To the right.

To my friends.

To my family.

To people I’ve never met.

To myself.

They shoot in all directions, and they all come from me to them. I see theirs too. And it’s beautiful how connected we all really are.

◊

It’s in moments like this that I think maybe one day time will turn back, back to the day when that little boy made a pact to the world to never give up on it, on us—even though it couldn’t actually mean anything or be more than just a boy thinking he can fix the unfixable. But maybe something about that moment is worth looking at, not because of him, but because of all the little boys and girls throughout all time—every movement and every step, every piercing laughter and abrupt moment of sacred stillness.

Maybe time will remember and we’ll finally understand. We’ll stretch out ribbons across the world and there will be so many that they will be capable of anything. They will heal our deepest pains and wipe away our children’s tears. They’ll encircle us all but in a new way that reaches up to the stars, and the comets will move backward up from the ground and back into the atmosphere.   

Maybe time will slow. It will slow until the clouds are still in reverence and the sunlight flowing through them makes paths in the air. Just for a moment. Only for a moment.

And maybe it will look up at the sky in awe as we rise into the air connected to a single ribbon held gently by the hand of God. We’ll rise, but we’ll rise together interconnected forever by unbreakable threads that will stream out behind each of us in trails of fire and ice and glory.

As we break free from the atmosphere into the infinite confines of the universe, I wonder if to the stars, we’ll look like comets.  

For the sake of my kitchen, I sure hope so.

Stars In the Morning Light

Howdy everyone!! I hope y'all are as excited for Christmas as I am! Thanks again for checking out my blog. I have tons of great ideas for stories that I'll try to get out over the next few weeks. I just can't get too behind because then I'll start forgetting some of the great stuff that comes to my mind. But for now I would like to post a little composition  that's from my high-school years. You can tell it was me but I think I write a little different now. I don't know maybe I was sassier back then. Who knows. But the class was English V, just a fun senior class where we would talk about college, read books, and write on unique topics. One of the topics was what we would say if we were valedictorian (cause the valedictorian was the one who spoke at senior graduation) but I decided to I take it seriously. I remember it meaning a lot to me and I suppose it still does. So let's get on with it shall we? With the spirit of our much younger and rebellious teenage selves! Enjoy.

Stars In the Morning Light

            I had a dream once. Whether I was in it or not, I don’t quite remember. It seems like it wove itself carefully through my mind, sometimes with my family and sometimes with an ambiguous one, like tendrils of mist that snake slowly through the grass of a cool spring morning. This family-they were always happy, always together, and always doing something incredibly fun despite the fact that they lived alone on a small island. But, right before I woke up, I remembered one last thing. Yes, the family was on the island lake. Yes, they had a very expensive looking motor boat, and, of course, they were all waterskiing from the back of it- every single one of them. It’s kind of ridiculous isn’t it, all the kinds of dreams we can have. I know they’re not real, but isn’t it interesting the things our minds can come up with? They can be frightening, they can be fantastic, and sometimes they can be just plain silly, but I guess what fascinates me the most is that they’re almost always different.

            But as fun as sleep-dreams are, my favorite dreams are the ones I get when I’m awake. I’ve had a good many after 18 years, most of which I remember from when I was young. Oh, the days that I dreamed of becoming a mailman. Whether it was that amazing box with the flag that entranced me or that sweet car, I can’t quite be sure, but now, as I reflect, that seems to be one of my more frightening dreams. But since then, so many more have come and gone: my dream of becoming a cowboy, a veterinarian, an astronaut, and a fireman, my dream of becoming President, my dream to work at NASA, my dream to get into MIT, my dream of making a perfect score on the SAT, and last, but not least, my dream of becoming the ultimate Pokémon master. Ok, I know that last one seems stupid now but when I was ten, it seemed like it had potential.

            Currently, my dream is to become a mechanical engineer and create some device to save the world, which might or might not include the prevention of energy crisis, world hunger, mass famine, weather related disasters, killer bee attacks, and/or polar bear extinction. Now this is just a blue print, but I’m pretty sure that given ten to twenty years I can make it work. Impossible? Is this a dream that will end up like most, forgotten and faded inside a part of me that knows it is nothing but a wish, for that is all dead dreams are, or is it something more, something real? I think it is really up to me to decide, as far as I am concerned. Hopefully, I need not remind any of you of the dreams of explorers and inventors, despots and kings, scientists and athletes; theirs are the ones that have shaped this world and they are the proof that with enough vision and, shall I say it, chutzpa, that any dream can become something more.

            My step-dad, not too long ago, told me he dreamed of something as simple as an installed sprinkler system, but then right afterward he said that it would probably never get done. That happens more and more often, you know; people think of something that only they can see come together, then they’ll get this look in their eye and let out some dream that seems so near yet so incredibly far that they let it slip away. My dad and stepmom, for a while, were planning on opening their own pet kennel. They had the money, the vision, the building layout; they even had the spot picked out and everything. That dream would have come to fruition had it not been for the divorce that broke them apart. I know that dreams must always change because we can never prepare ourselves for what life will throw at us. I think people blink and they find themselves in a dead-end job, a dead-marriage, or even just a plain, old dead-end. Dreams change, but they never have to die. I know we are young and graduating high-school; the possibilities for our futures are unlimited. Today it might be easy to dream of something great, but times will get tough and it is then you must hold on to the dream that once drove you. If you don’t, it will slip away like the stars in the morning light, and every time you wake up you’ll see it again, if not just for a moment, before it is erased again by the realities of life.

            I know I’m no Martin Luther King. Most of my dreams are unusual and farfetched, but I do know that our dreams can have substance. They are important because they hold the promises of our future. But as rich as any of those promises might be, they are all empty if never fully fulfilled. My current dream is ambitious, but I would like to think that all of you have dreams like mine with the same potential and promise of making a difference. If we each strive to see our own dream become the new reality, then, chances are, at least one of us will hit that jackpot and achieve the power to actually solve our energy problems or even get rid of all those pesky Africanized honey bees. They say we are the future; if we never stop, who is to say we can’t be?

             I cherish those few dreams that linger in the waking hours of the morning, dreams like that happy family waterskiing on that smooth island lake. I will never stop dreaming, not until the day I die. I vow to live my life on the wisps between the shadows of sleep and time so that I will never lose sight of the dreams that promise me the sweetest memories and the most resplendent sunsets. Don’t let them slip away. 

"Who Understands Me When I Say This Is Beautiful?"

Hello, everyone! I'm back ready to upload another story. This one is one that is closest and most precious to me. It was inspired by the poem Who Understands Me But Me? by Jimmy Santiago Baca. This story was created not only through this poem, but through many personal experiences as well. I wanted it to be human and real. I wanted it to be deep and mysterious, but relatable. I wrote it originally as part of my book, but now it has become a story of its own. I hope you all love it as much as I do. With that, enjoy.

*changes made June 28, 2012

"Who Understands Me When I Say This Is Beautiful?"

Sometimes as I look across the sea, I think about before, when the world was dark and time stood still. They say the earth cried out, louder than it ever had, but there was no one there to hear it. They say that we were lost. 

But the light came back.

And ever since I was a boy, I’ve heard that story more times than I can count, and still I wonder if I completely understand.  But I couldn’t forget it even if I wanted to.

And as I watch the waves, the words come back and I see it all again. I close my eyes and suddenly his world becomes mine in the morning dawn.

That day, the sound of rain touched him, but it was different.

It called to him, and he could hear every puddle, every river, every drop that slid from the tin roof to the clay flower pots that sat outside his door. But instead of pitters and patters, he heard whispers.

They called his name quietly as he lay in bed, watching what little light there was play upon the ceiling. He tossed and turned as he tried to ignore the still small voices that echoed from the trees to the tops of the eastern mountains.

   

They called until they sounded like one and he knew as he opened his eyes that he had to obey. He peered out the window and that’s when he saw them—small streamlets of water that gathered in the cracks in the pavement. He watched them and was mesmerized by them; they were headed somewhere.  He craned his head in a desperate attempt to follow them, but it was in vain as they ran down the street and out of his view.

He quickly pulled on his dark green gym shorts and his black running shoes, and walked outside. “Ill listen,” he whispered to himself more than anything. No one heard but no one really needed to. He knew it was time.

As he began to run, raindrops pattered gently on his face and trickled down his chin. He could feel every one. And it made him feel more alive because they made him feel like he was part of something bigger. He began to jog slowly at first but as he gained momentum, the rhythm of his legs and arms pulsed with the beat of his heavy heart until every muscle moved together, in perfect syncopation.

He ran until he found the rivulets of water that trickled down the silent streets and alleyways, past squat wooden lean-tos, cheap metal mail bins, and the brick factory where the sick and wounded were kept. His eyes passed from the shanties to the tattered streets; for some reason, beneath the drops of rain, they had never seemed so broken.

They say it hardly rained back then because of the all the smog. Ever since the war began, the gasses from the bombs had drifted like fog across the country, floating across the tops of ponds and hanging from the shutters of the wooden shacks that lined the empty streets. No one ever took the time to know exactly what it was, but it smelt of sulfur and rotten food. It would creep into the cracks in the walls until you could smell it even when you slept.

When he passed the only living trees that grew within the boundaries of the city, a lone line of peach trees, he watched how each raindrop stuck to their delicate, pink blossoms, and as the water sparkled in the light, he couldn’t help but wonder what it would be like to run forever and find a place where even the sulfur couldn’t reach.

He followed the rivulets to the edge of town where decayed grave stones dotted the ruin that was the Outer Rim of what used to be the greatest city in the western hemisphere. The grave stones watched him silently through fallen buildings with names almost as old and faded as those etched upon the granite tomb stones. The rubble of the past lay strewn about the land, filling in the gaps the concrete no longer could. But he had not come to remember.

The rivulets of rainfall pushed their way through empty streets and forbidden pathways, somehow finding each other until they were not rivulets but small streams that flowed toward the eastern mountains. It was miles away but he wasn’t afraid. He was determined to follow them to the end. So together they pushed past the Outer Rim and into the countryside. He barely noticed as civilization passed away and was replaced by wide, spacious wheat fields. Their golden arms waved slowly, as the wind passed between each one, but nevertheless, they waved as one—like a sea of gold that lapped gently against the road. In front of him loomed mountains, green with lush vegetation. They called to him, and he heard. It was all so beautiful but he wasn’t there to enjoy it—not then. He knew he was running to something. But was it something he had lost or something he had always wanted? A part of him hoped with every part of his being that she was at the top of those mountains waiting for him. Just maybe she had been there all along, knowing he would find her there one day. He smiled at the thought, but he knew better.  He wasn’t sure what he would find, but he knew it was waiting.

An hour went by and the mountains drew closer, growing larger by the minute, and the road began to narrow. He knew he was the one running, but it seemed like he was being drawn in.

As the rain began to fall harder than before, the rhythm of his own feet helped him think as he passed through seemingly unending golden oceans with tiny islands that held brick cottages afloat. He thought of his mother and father, his child hood dreams, the war and its victims. He dreamed of their faces, even those he had never seen, and he gave them details so that they seemed to live inside him. They each had a story, a life, a family, and every night he would find them again just so he could look them each in the eye and say that he was sorry.

He looked up at the clouds and he was sure the sun blazed behind them, threatening to seep through any crack at any given moment. The grey seemed determined to hide every inch of blue, every hint that there was something better behind them.  But he knew that it was only time.

No one seemed to believe that one day the war would end—they didn’t even believe that it could anymore.  But he wanted to believe. He had to.

As he neared the eastern mountains, his thoughts turned back to when he was about eight or so, back to the first time he controlled the light. He wandered away from the family campsite to chase a blue jay; he had never seen one before. It was only for a moment, but when he turned back, both the campsite and his parents were gone. He tried to retrace his steps, but it was to no avail. He was lost. He wandered for days through the forest, starving and thirsty, until he pled with the stars. It was night then—how could I forget?—it was night, and he looked up to them because they were the only lights in the darkness. “If I could only borrow just a part of them,” he thought, “my parents could find me.” So he pled with them with the heart of a child, and as he lifted his hand into the sky, their light rained down upon him, like shooting stars, until he wasn't afraid anymore. The search party found him that same night because they had seen the lights in the sky, and when they came together, they all wondered what it could have been. But he knew and could never forget how the light came to him, warmed him, healed him, just because he asked it to. And from that day on, he would always ask and it would always come.

But not anymore. Not for years. Not since the war.

His thoughts drifted to the mountains as they called to him again. They had grown so that they now towered high above him. As he crossed from field to forest, he ran with hundreds of streamlets up into the mountain. They ran apart now, but still together upward toward the same destination. He followed the trail that led him only up into the forest, deeper into the trees and the life. He was the only thing that moved besides the rain that blanketed the shrubs and brush beside his path. He felt like he had been here before. The trail was ancient but its pathways were unlimited and uncounted, the majority untouched. But somehow he knew where to go. Had he dreamed of this place? He couldn’t quite explain the feeling, but he knew that he was so close.

The tall Tamerron pines began to get closer together as the terrain steepened. Never had he smelled air so sweet—it made him want to breathe deeper. Everything contributed, from the pines to the wet earth to the small crimson snapdragons that watched him as he ran by. Like the rain, even the air made him feel stronger and more alive.

Pressing forward faster than ever, he climbed until finally the trees began to thin. But there they reached to the sky almost as if asking for something. He ran until the trail leveled off right before the top of the mountain, and he watched the path curve through the trees until it was out of sight. He stopped to catch his breath and peered out into the forest. It was almost warmer, but how?

Then slowly, almost cautiously, he followed that trail around the bend and could not help but marvel at the sight.  As he lifted his eyes, the trail became grass, and the grass became the water of a small mountain lake that lay hidden between the giant Tamerrons and the shadow of the peak of the mountain. Grass and trees surrounded the water on all sides, except the farthest on the opposite end. The water was so close to the edge he felt that it could burst out at any moment from the mountainside like soup in a broken bowl.

 “Is this the place?” he thought.  Why here? He craned his neck to clouds that stood ominously above him. The lack of trees allowed the rain to fall unobstructed so that the tiny droplets fell harder and faster than ever onto his clothes and skin. They crawled down his chin and fingers and jumped from his nose to rejoin their comrades down below. Or were they brothers?

He always pictured them as prisoners—prisoners locked in an iron cage until they could be held no longer. But maybe they weren’t prisoners at all, he thought, as he stared at the sky but in a different way than he ever had before. Maybe they were sent for something. He closed his eyes and only felt. He hadn’t felt in so long. Then he heard them. “Look," they whispered. He looked at the lake, but it seemed like every other lake that he had seen. “Closer,” they urged him. He looked again and moved closer to the edge where the water delicately touched the thick carpet of green grass that lined the lake. And as he looked, he saw that it didn’t look like water at all! As the raindrops fell upon the lake, it seemed as though they didn’t sink or stop or disappear; instead they danced and jumped and tugged softly at the small branches and lazy mallard ducks that drifted to and fro above the backs of other busy raindrops. He had never seen so much life. And as he watched them, he was filled with wonder because it didn’t matter whether they tugged or twirled or simply moved—it was always together, always as one.

He looked around and saw the streams come from all sides, some from above and others from below, but all ran with one goal, one purpose. They came from every direction just to be a part of the same mountain pond.  He didn’t understand how they all knew, how they were all born with the same desire to be together. They looked so strong that he was sure that if he stepped upon the surface, they would carry and support him. So he did. He stepped out onto the water and walked because he never doubted that he could. And as he walked, he asked himself a single question: What if we were all like drops of rain—caring for each other, making each other strong, and knowing that we can be a part of something so great it seems like it has no end? Even to these raindrops, this pond must seem infinite to them. Together, he thought, there would be no end to the good mankind could do. He looked beneath him at the beings that pushed him further toward the center of the lake, and wondered if they were happy. He hadn’t seen true happiness nor felt it in so long. Tears mixed with rain as he remembered his hate and fear, his pride and selfishness, his fear and bitter loneliness, the war and the death. He remembered them all. “How could we possibly fix everything that we have ruined?” he thought. When so much was unfixable and broken, how could humanity possibly save itself?

Once again, he looked up to the heavens for answers. “How?” he pleaded.  As he spoke, they whispered to him again. “Look,” they said but he didn't understand. He thought he had already seen everything there was to see, so they whispered it a thousand times in a thousand different ways until he finally looked out across the lake where the trees stopped and the sky began. He saw the sky and earth run until they ran together and looked like one solid seem that went forever, undivided and indivisible. And for the first time since the war began, he saw in the distance, past the steely grey, that there were no dark storm clouds—only blue and white and sunbeams of brilliant yellow that pierced through iron, bursting forth from behind all form and color. They shot across the sky reaching for the horizon.

In that moment, he understood that it was the light he had lost so many years ago that had sent those streams to guide him there. So right then and there in the middle of that lonely mountain pond, he raised his hand like he had done so many times before, but this time wanting and waiting. Pleading and hoping. Willing. And as he closed his eyes, the wall of cloud and grey parted and sunlight dripped from the heavens onto his cheeks until it bathed him. It washed right through him and drove deep into his soul. The light poured onto him, surrounding him in warmth and washing away all the tears the pain had caused. The pain was so deep he didn't think anything could ever reach it. But the light was stronger and deeper, so when he let it in, it went straight through, illuminating even the darkest parts of him.

That day he met his anger and his hate, his sadness and despair, his fear and confusion. He spoke with them and let them go, let them wash into the cool, dark pond. And as the soft light of the sun penetrated the cold of skin and soul, he laughed like a child—so hard and so pure—and for the first time in years, sunlight came out of his mouth like the greatest beacon in the night. If only for a moment, there was no darkness on the earth as the world watched light rain from the heavens like shooting stars and remembered, once again, why no one ever had to be afraid.

The war is over now, and that story has become legend. They say he made it all right again, but I sometimes wonder how they can be so sure. Even now, I listen for the raindrops that called him to the eastern mountains. Perhaps, one day I’ll hear them too so they can take me there.

"Did I Show Y'all the Pictures Of the Snow?"

Ok, this one was also written by the duck pond, and it is veeerrrryy abstract. But I dont really care, so I guess it doesnt matter. :) It makes me laugh and I like the images it creates in my mind. I want you all to read it first, and try to figure out what the heck it means and what could have possibly inspired it. It's titled Did I Show Ya'll the Pictures of the Snow?.

“Did I show ya’ll the pictures of the snow?”

He smells like smoke.

Quiet.

Peaceful.

People come to relax, to enjoy the birds, and the scenery.

It’s cooler here.

“That’s your car right thea?”

Birds fly in a circle, carefully in formation, with one red bird in the middle.

“I have some stale crackers I need to bring over here.”

“These are some ooold ducks.”

“Are those pigeons?”

They rise into the air and surround me.

“You know Palal?”

“Who, Darlene’s brother??”

 “He got mad at me cause I was late. How could he get mad at me for being late? Palal is late all the time, and nobody says nothin’ to him.”

“When’s he moving? Next weekend right?”

“Every time I see GameStop on the way to work, I think of him.”

I could walk, but I don’t.

So we watch the birds fly figure eights above the lake.

 So, what did you think? :) Crazy, huh? Well, heres the answer...
I was sitting in the park trying to get new ideas for my book and an elderly black couple sat down next to me. And they just started talking...to each other... to me... they just kept talking. They were really nice, but at first, I was a little annoyed because I walked all the way there just to have some peace and quiet. There were empty benches EVERYWHERE yet they decided to sit next to me. But I started listening to them and writing down different things that they said. They were obviously from the same church and Palal is some guy that they knew there. Whatever is in quotes is something they said- even the title- and the rest is just detail from my perspective. And while we were talking, an enormous flock of birds started to fly in perfect unison above the lake in a giant figure eight. It was such an odd experience...
but I hope you all enjoyed it! (or at least got a kick out of it..) Until next time, carpe diem!!! :)

Who Am I?

This next one is on more of a serious note. I wrote this last year as I was working on my book, and well, this time in my life was very difficult because I had to be by myself almost all the time- from morning until my parents came home from work. But as I was sitting by the duck pond by my house, this is something that just came out. It was meant for me at first but after looking back on it, I saw value in it. I changed some things so that it wouldnt be quite so awkward and personal... :) I like it now, and I hope that those who read it can identify with it and remember a time in their lives when they were looking for who they were. This is called Who Am I?.

Who Am I?

Who am I?? What am I?

Sometimes, I’m not really sure. It hurts to think about it. What really defines me? Is it companionship? Is it power? Is it sex? What about life? Light? Religion? Do my thoughts control me? Are they my master?

Who decides the answer? Who am I? What am I? Am I death? Am I a savior? Am I a God? Or am I nothing? Or everything?

Sometimes I don’t know.

I feel so alone sometimes, so alone it hurts and I feel worthless. But who is to say I am worthless? Who is to say I am defined by the things in side my head, the monsters that creep inside me from the cobwebs of my mind?

They want to win- they want to define me. Everyone wants to define me, but I will not be defined as an object or a feeling or a possession or anything less than I am.

So who am I? What am I?

I am Alex Masterson. And I define myself.  I am ambitious and loving and I love to be in love. I am powerful and I rejoice in my strengths but also my weaknesses. Sometimes a little too much. I can make miracles happen in my life and in the lives of those around me and I don’t need the consent of others to feel like I am doing what is right. I am a child of a living God, that knows me and believes in me. Sometimes even more than I do, myself. I am flawed like everyone else in this world, but somehow together they can make me so much more than I could ever be alone. I want to be better, I must be better because they are worth more than they know.
We all are.

I am a creator and I will be a master of myself one day.

But I am learning control. I told you I would, so I will.

I am learning how to keep my promises.

I am learning how to be patient.

I am learning how to be me.

Because I am worth it.

I want to be free.

Floating On the Wind

Hello again! I have decided to stop procrastinating and start finishing some of the many pieces I have written. It might not be perfect but it's as good as it's going to get for now. I really love this piece because it was only supposed to be a writing excercise but at the end of it all I really loved where I went with it. It almost has more meaning than even I intended. I think it would be a decent picture book, but only time will tell.

Floating On the Wind

He picked up a leaf and touched the rough surface with his hands. He let the tiny bumps and ridges pass beneath his searching fingertips, and he found life there.

Millions of tiny veins ran through it, once reaching and spreading, once pouring life into the farthest leaves of the highest treetops.

“Ask me a question and I’ll tell you a story.” He whispered to the boy quietly.

“How long had it lived for?”

“It lived for a million years, and saw a million sunsets that overlooked a savannah that spread out over a million miles. This leaf was the first and greatest of its kind. But not many know that it saw forever because of time and age.”

“Don’t you think it became wise after living all those years?” The boy asked

“Oh, of course.” The storyteller agreed. “That one leaf knew all the secrets of the universe because it watched and waited for so long.”

“Well, what was it waiting for?”

“Death.” The man replied

“Death? But, why death?”

“He waited for death so that he could be free of the tree that bound it to its branches. He waited for death so that it could fly away into forever.”

“How do you fly to forever? How can I get there?” the boy pleaded.

“Ah, ah, ah- only one question at a time. Think before you speak, and if you ask just the right question, you’ll get just the right answer.”

“Right, sorry..” he said sheepishly. After a few moments deep in thought, he asked a different question.

“What is forever like?”

“It is a place where spring and autumn reign and everyday is beautiful.  Leaves fall but never die, and even the tallest trees never stop growing.” the old man said with a smile.

“How did the leaf get there?” the boy asked again, his eyes now deep and searching.

“When it dropped from the tree, it asked the wind to take it there. The wind said it would, but only on one condition. The leaf had to prove to the wind that it had done three great things to change the world. And if it could, then the wind would take it to forever.” , replied the storyteller.

“‘Do you see that patch of dead grass beneath my tree?’ The leaf asked the wind. ‘There I gave shade to all the weary travelers that ever rested beneath me. Not once did I turn them away or tell them I was too busy. Does selflessness not change the world?’ asked the leaf.

’It does.’ said the wind. ‘That is one.’

’Do you see the many marks on my skin? I have been not only shelter but food to even the smallest insects. I gave them safety and offered them nourishment so that they would do the same for others. I taught by example so that there would be life in abundance across the entire savannah. Does all life not change the world?’ asked the leaf.

‘It does.’ said the wind. ‘That is two.’

‘Do you see that I am dead? I did nothing my entire life but serve the tree where I began. I was alive for him, and I stayed by his side for a million years to make him beautiful and help him grow. I gave him all of me. Does sacrifice not change the world?’ asked the leaf.

‘It does.’ said the wind. ‘That is three.’“

The small boy waited but the ending did not come.

 “So what happened? Did he take him?”

“I don’t know.” the storyteller said with a smile.

“You don’t know?!” he shouted. “How could you not know? It’s your story!"

“Exactly!!” The man exclaimed. “It is my story. And my story ends there. But if you want to know the end so badly, then why don’t you finish it yourself?”

“Look, I don’t think…” the boy began.

“Don’t think.” he whispered softly. “Just answer the questions and the ending will come. Did the wind do as he promised?”

“Um, yes.” The man motioned that he wanted more. The boy didn’t know how he was supposed to finish a story without thinking, so he just…began.

“The wind recognized the leaf because he was the first to pass the test. He was just about to take him to forever, when the leaf shouted, ‘Wait!!’”

“Why did he shout wait?” the old man asked.

“Because he still had one more request before he left his home behind.”

“‘ It was you who asked me to take you on to forever.’ Said the wind. ‘Have you changed your mind?’

‘No.’  said the leaf. ’ I have not changed my mind. I just have one more thing to ask of you before we go.'

‘If it is within my power, it shall be done.’ Said the wind.

‘I want to be remembered so that those that come after me know that they too can change the world. Carve me into rocks that will not fall or crumble so that they will remember me and know that I wait for them in forever.’

‘I cannot, my friend.’ said the wind. ‘That is not within my power. All on this earth must fall and crumble; I cannot change that. But what I can do is this. For a million years, you were the only one of your kind, but now billions of others like you will grow around the globe. They'll follow your example and do as you did to remind us of the life you lived. They will be selfless, give life to the world, and sacrifice everything they are to make the world beautiful. They will teach the world as you did. No longer will you be alone.’”

“That's it.” the old man whispered. Then they stood, and only watched as their leaf too, floated on the wind.

The Mighty Epsilon- The Short Story

Hello everyone! I have been working hard, and I have finally finished this story. I have a different version of it that I told to my sister's story telling class, but I had to cut alot out to make the time requierements. But read, it seemed a little empty as far as details go. I like the story-telling version alot, which is why I don't want to change it or take it off my blog, and besides this version is  veerry different. I made so many changes! But it is done, and as good as I think I can make it. So here it is- The Mighty Epsilon.

                                                                The Mighty Epsilon

As a boy, dream is all I did.

Ms. Mayberry would often ask me why I wasn’t like the other children from the orphanage.

They would play baseball and hopscotch, but not me. I was different.

I loved to dream. I would dream that the night sky would fall like rain, so I could sail into my favorite galaxies. I would dream I was a bird so I could know once and for all, if clouds were actually just really big marshmallows. I would even dream sometimes of the way my mom and dad used to tuck me into bed and kiss me goodnight.

But more than anything, I would dream I had a dog. And every night I would dream of the day he would come to me and be my greatest friend.

I still remember when I told Ms. Mayberry that I wanted a puppy. “But not just any puppy,” I said with a smile, ”I want a white one with black spots and little floppy ears that bend over just right!”

She just looked down at me over her horn-rimmed glasses and said “You know animals aren’t allowed in the orphanage.” Puzzled, I asked myself what that had to do with black and white puppies with floppy ears.

“It’s alright”, I exclaimed, “If YOU won’t get me one, I’ll just wait until the day he comes to me and jumps right through my bedroom window!”

Then she tenderly stroked my cheek and said “Honey, that doesn’t even make sense. The windows are too high, and besides, dogs don’t jump through windows.”

I didn’t say anything so she simply sighed and left me there, but I didn’t mind that she didn’t understand.  I knew he would come, but I just didn’t know that he would come that very night.

I was in my little room about to get under the covers when something dashed right through the open window. And I knew exactly who it was.

I crawled to the foot of my bed and there smiling back up at me was a little white dog with black spots and floppy ears that bent over just right.

“I knew you would come.” I said. “What took you so long?”

“What makes you think I’m late?” he asked, cocking his head to one side like most dogs do.

Then I jumped to the floor and gathered him in my arms. I had waited so long for him, and finally he was there beside me. I set him on my bed, looked deep into his eyes, and said “I always knew that you could talk.”  

“Do you like to dream?” He asked me. “I LOVE to dream”, I said.

Then he laughed so hard, I think the room got brighter and he began to sing:

“I am the king of dreams and I’ll show you everything!

The autumn leaves and the summer rain,

The sweetest songs and the strangest games,

The burning dusk and the breaking dawn,

I am the mighty Epsilon.”

It was beautiful really the way he sang. I wondered to myself if I had heard it before, but I quickly shook the thought away. How could I have?

“So, you’ll help me dream of anything?” I asked

 “Of course!” he cried out, “But just as long as you have a box.”

“A box?” I asked intrigued. “What kind of box?”

“Oh any box!” he said. “A small box, a big box, a tall box, a thin box, even greens ones with red polka dots. Any box will do.”

So I rummaged through my room, and quickly found a box about the size of my hand.

“Can we dream of oceans?” I begged. “I’ve never seen the ocean.”

“Just look.” He whispered. So I looked inside the box and there we were! Captains of the largest ship I‘d ever seen with masts that touched the clouds. We sailed all night across the oceans to the ends of the earth where the moon was so large and the water so clear, you could see the seashells and shipwrecks that dot the ocean floor. Then in an instant, that massive ship shrunk until it was a simple wooden raft, and there underneath the moonlight, I dipped my fingertips into the cool water while I watched the ripples catch the waves and disappear into the deep. I think it was right before sleep overcame me and the box slid from my hands that I heard him whisper, “All my life, boy, I’ve been waiting for you.”

Every night we dreamt together. I would find a box, and then we would look inside and dream of things that I had never dreamt I could dream of! We dreamt of dangerous jungles and fierce dragons, one-legged pirates and even castles with bathrooms larger than the orphanage itself! One night we even swam through space, past the moon and the stars, until we had found every planet in the universe. There’s about 3 gagillion. Believe me, we counted.

Then one night, I asked him a question that had been on my mind for some time.

“Epsilon, tonight can we dream of something special?”

“Like what?”he asked gently. A large box, almost larger than me, sat overturned on the foot of my bed. He rested his head on his spotted paws, and by the look in his eyes, I got the strange feeling that he already knew what I wanted to ask.

Unable to contain myself any longer, I blurted out, “Can we dream your favorite dream?”

He only laughed like he did the first day I met him and sang out his song.

“I am the king of dreams and I’ll show you everything!

The autumn leaves and the summer rain,

The sweetest songs and the strangest games,

The burning dusk and the breaking dawn,

I am the mighty Epsilon.”

Then he whispered, “Look”. So I looked inside and suddenly we were at the foot of a mountain on the edge of a plateau. As I craned my head upwards toward the heavens, it seemed to never end. It rose up higher and higher until it disappeared behind the clouds of a purple sky mixed with shades of blue I had never seen before. And as I walked to the side of the cliff, the sun came up and a sea of golden light splashed across my face. I marveled at the beauty of it all and wondered how and why it would travel so far just to warm the coldest parts of me.

For years we dreamt like that, imagining things I had never seen, creating the impossible. Sometimes we would even dream our favorite dream, that sunrise at the foot of the mountain, and we would watch it over and over again.

And I would ask him “Why a box?”, but Epsilon would never say. 

Then one day when I was old enough, we left that orphanage and we never went back. We left to see the world and it wasn’t long until I found myself at the foot of that same mountain, only this time it wasn’t a dream. That day I saw a real sunrise, and as I fell to my knees, I realized that all the dreams that we had dreamed were not only possibilities, but realities.

“Epsilon, how come you never told me?” I said.

He simply cocked his head to one side like most dogs do, and said “You never asked.”

So I cried out, “Epsilon, show me true joy, show me true sorrow! I want to know the world!”

And he said, “My boy, I’ll show you everything!”

So we dreamt of a better world: a world without hunger, a world without war, a world where everyone dreamt like kings and anything was possible.

We travelled to cities and countries throughout the globe, and we showed people kindness. We taught them to care for one another, and stand up for the best and most beautiful things.

We showed the world our favorite dream, and it became a reality.

But one day, I came home and cried out his name, “Epsilon!”, and I waited for that song I had heard so many times before.

But it never came.

Epsilon, my greatest friend, was gone.

I cried that day. But I didn’t cry for long because I realized that he had taught me that I never needed a box to see and feel and make the most magnificent things. And I know now that there is no limit to the dreams that can come true.

Even today, he roams the world in search of other little girls and boys that are waiting for him to jump right through their bedroom window. They’ll gather him in their arms and they'll say “I knew that you would come! I always knew that you could talk!”

And sometimes if I try hard enough, I can still hear him sing.