Quick Cap on Thoughts and Story Corner

I want to write. I want to sleep. I want to stay up for five days in a row.

I want to read and sing and dance and clean and write and then listen to music and draw with my new oil pastels and make a dress and cut my hair and drink some wine (although I would never do anything like that.. *wink, wink*) and then curl up in my blankets and fall asleep on the floor in front of a fire.

Yeah, I've got a lot of energy today. Or maybe not.

Wow. Um, okay. My mind is kind of going into over load here. It's weird. I can feel myself fast approaching that state of exhaustion I've shared with you before. It's funny, though. My best work is always done when I'm really tired. Or when I'm really hungry, or when I'm both at the same time. It's like pushing myself so that I'm dangerously close to the edge brings on a kind of clarity that is unique and wonderful and a one of a kind effect of burning the candle at both ends.

I think I'm addicted to burning candles.

And if you get tired enough, your body sends you this adrenaline rush, or something very close to it, and it feels really great, and all you want to do is run five miles.

Yeah, I just realized how crazy I'm starting to sound. Don't try this at home, folks.

And I promise I'm not a loony-toon. I just have no filter system what-so-ever when I get tired.

So, because this really clear and creative stage only comes after hours of comatose sitting, you can conclude that I've been laying around a house all day completely brain-dead, eating and staring into space. And we all know that zombies don't think, so from that you can conclude that I have no other thoughts to share with you today.

I blame it on Vent Absurd, my dear friend who's house I had been at for over 24 hours. And Jessi, of course, even though she really didn't do anything but be outragously cool.

Well, since there are no other thoughts to contribute, and I've rambled far passed enough, without further adoooooooo.......(drum roll please: badaba-badaba-badaba-DA!)
Story Corner:

...................

The door to her room swung open for the second time that day. He just stood there, looking inside, watching as she pushed in front of him and quickly tidied a couple of things. As she did this, she told him, "You can come in if you want. Make yourself comfortable."
He didn't acknowledge her at all. Instead, he picked at the sleeve of the shirt she had found for him, avoiding her gaze. The clothes he was wearing now belonged to her dad, and he chose to focus on how they were much too big on him instead of her. Almost since the time he had first seen her, he hadn't been able to pull his eyes away from her. He knew it was rude, and he knew it made her uncomfortable to be recieving his attention, but he couldn't stop. It seemed like a game of cat and mouse, both exhilarating and frightening when watching, even more so when you're being seen. And their glances had been like a ping-pong ball, bouncing back and forth between them all day. It was dizzying.
He heard her sigh. Reluctantly, he lifted his eyes. She said, "Really. Come in. Get in bed. You need to rest, and this is where you'll be sleeping, anyway."
He frowned. "What about you?"
It was her turn to frown. "What do you mean? I'm not the one who is mortally injured."
"Yes, but where will you sleep?"
Looking away, she shuffled her feet. "I'll find a place...the couch or something. It's not a big deal."
He studied her for a couple more seconds, and then nodded. It didn't feel right to kick her out of her own bed, but she did have a point; he was exhausted, and he needed to rest, or he risked serious health implications. Taking a deep breath, he stepped through the door, walked to the bed, and hesitantly sat down. After more urging from her, he stretched out, finally laying down.
She pulled an extra blanket from the closet, and laid it on top of the already bulging mound of comforters on her bed. He pulled them up, feeling self-concious, but not really knowing how to diffuse the awkward situation. He had never been good at stuff like this, and he wasn't going to try now, so he would just have to suffer the discomforture.
As if they had a mind of their own, his eyes found their way to her, and he didn't even realize he was watching her until a few minutes had passed. Closing his eyes seemed like a good way to solve his problem. Or at least one of them.
Swallowing, he asked a question he had been saving ever since he had walked into her house. "Where are your parents?"
He heard her hands freeze on the blankets she was fussing with. Curiousity compelled him to open his eyes, and he saw that her expression was equally as frozen. The silence blossomed in the air, but finally she answered. "They aren't home. They probably won't be until much later."
The last thing he needed was her parents to walk into her room and see a strange boy in her bed, regardless of whether or not she was in it or not. "How much later is 'much later?'"
She looked down at her hands, something he noticed she did a lot. Or at least something she was doing a lot today. He idilly wondered why she did it; there had to be a reason for her nervous habit. Mentally he shook himself. He was focusing on her parents. Unwanted attention. Possible catastrophy. Her answer.
"I don't know if they even will get home. If they do, then it won't be until after midnight, and they'll more than likely crash as soon as they walk in the door. You don't have to worry about them finding you here."
Even though her hair fell around her bowed head in a shiny brown wave, it didn't mask her expression. He was sorry he had asked, because this was obviously a painful subject for her. He wouldn't doubt it if she told him her parents stayed out every night. It was practically stamped across her face. He wondered how long they had been neglecting her; it must have been for a long time, considering the stricken look playing across her features. It made him angry to think that anyone could do that to her.
He didn't say anything, but before he could stop himself, he was reaching out for her hand. He was touching her before he could cancel the command. It was worth it, though. Her hand was warm and small, and it felt good to have her fragile fingers laced with his. Like the first time he had done this, she didn't pull away immediately; the seconds ticked by and she let him comfort her. But the reality of their situation soon caught up with her. She didn't even know him; she pulled away.
He decided to put his hands under the covers so that he wouldn't be tempted to reach out again. He hadn't realized how cold he was, but now he was shivering. Acting casual, he tried to subdue his shaking muscles. It didn't escape her notice. Scooting closer to him, she laid a hand on his forehead, and it was surprisingly cool to the touch. She frowned. "You're getting a fever. Maybe I should go get some asprin. That would help the pain too. I'll be right back."
Standing up, she left the room.
Once she was gone, he allowed himself to mentally assess the damage. His ankle was starting to throb now, probably because the pain that was so immenent before had subsided some. His stab wound felt better than it had. Closing his eyes, he recalled the moment just a few minutes ago when she had dressed his injury. He could still feel the fluttering of her fingers against his bare skin, and it made him shiver, but in a completely different way than the ones that were induced by the cold.
He didn't have much time to linger on this, because just in seconds she reappeared, carrying a glass of water and a bottle of asprin. She silently handed them over. Involutarily, he paused when their fingers brushed, but quickly moved on. When he flicked his eyes to her face, he could detect the dregs of a blush still on her cheeks. It made him smile, and he busied himself with opening the bottle to hide it. He carefully shook out two tiny pills, and then added another one onto his palm, just for good measure. Then he swallowed the bunch, and once again laid back on the pillows.
She paused a second before she resumed her perch on the edge of the bed. Even with his eyes closed, he could feel her watching his face, could tell that she had something to say. He patiently waited for her to speak up.
When she did, it was quiet. Or maybe he was just drifting off. Either way, he had to perk his ears to hear what she said. "You know, I'm going to have questions for you."
Maybe if he pretented he was asleep, he could evade answering.
"I know you're not sleeping."
Or not. He pulled in a deep breath before saying, "You must be curious, I'm sure."
She snorted. "More like confused, frusterated, and intrigued to the point of captivation."
He opened his eyes to look at her. "Really?"
Quickly, she looked away. "Something like that."
He closed his eyes again, trying to make her at ease again. It was hard; he wanted to see what expressions were dancing on her face. Was she just as interested in him as he was in her?
She broke into his thoughts--which were about her, coincidentally--when she cleared her throat. "Anyway, I want you to actually answer them. You owe me that much, don't you?"
Reluctantly he nodded. "Fine. You have a point. Go ahead. Ask."
She was silent for a while, suspending him in anticipation. But then she said, "No. I'm not going to ask you right now. You're under enough strain as it is." She paused, and when he opened his eyes for a second, he caught a glimpse of her chewing on her lip. Hurriedly, he closed his eyes again. She continued, "No, I'll wait until morning. Then you can give me a full explination, and I won't have to worry about you passing out from exhaustion while you're doing it."
Haha. She was so funny. Or, she would be, if she wasn't right. Even as she talked, he could feel himself drifting, floating. He heard himself agreeing. And then he wasn't saying anything anymore.
But she was still there. Even half-asleep, he could sense her. He could feel her weight depressing the corner of her bed. He had something else to say to her, but the words came slowly to his tounge.
"Thank you. I don't know where I would be right now if you hadn't..." he didn't finish. They both knew what would have happened, and where he would be right now. Where he could still end up, if he wasn't careful.
She didn't make him continue. Instead, very tentatively, she touched his hand. It was a soft touch, so light that he was sure that any second it would be lifted, and that it would surely be the last time that they would ever touch. The thought of that made him panicky, to his great surprise. Again, it hit him that she meant so much to him in such a short time. It shouldn't be possible to feel sick at the thought of loosing her. But that was the way he felt.
As if sensing his distress--although he would never admitt to showing any--she threaded their fingers together and slowly brought their entwined hands to her face. Once there, she placed them against her cheek. She held them there for a moment before letting go and standing up.
He tried very hard to open his eyes one last time to look at her, to ask her to stay. It wasn't until she got to the door that he managed to do so.
"Wait," he said.
She paused in the door frame, and her profile was silloetted in the light coming in from the hallway. He took a deep breath, and then said, "What's your name?"
He held his breath. He could believe he hadn't asked this sooner, or that she hadn't asked him. But the delay made this moment even more important. Almost magical, in a way.
Looking over her shoulder, she studied him for a minute. Finally she said, "Charli. My name is Charli. Who are you?"
The corners of his mouth turned up, and he replied, "That's a very long story for another day. But you can call me Ivan."
He thought he detected a small smile on her lips, and when she spoke, her warm tone fueled his suspicion. "I'll see you in the morning. Ivan."
With that, she was gone.
Charli...the name suited her. He smiled; it was another item he could add to the list of things he knew about her. Too bad that that list didn't even add up to a tenth of the list of things he didn't know about her. With the smile still stretched across his face, and quickly becoming a grin, he rolled over and burrowed his face into her pillows. They smelled like honeysuckle, and he breathed in the scent of her as he drifted off to sleep.

.............................

Thanks for reading!

--Kacie Renn

Music

I have all of these great quotes about music that I was going to put here, but then I realized I don't know who said them, so I can't use them. Confoundit!

So I guess I'll just jump in. I got a new ipod for Christmas. I'm so excited, because my old one was like a million years old in ipod-years, and it would even turn on anymore.

I love music so much, and it amazes me when you find people who don't like it, or think it's just noise or something to do when you're bored. But it's so much more than that. Music is the soul incarnate. It represents everything that we can't say with words, and everything that we can't represent with actions. The combinations of notes and the lyrics with them trigger emotional responses, and I think it's amazing that noise can have such an effect.

Yeah, I know it sounds cheesy, but it's very true. Music makes up about 70% of me. I'm listening to it almost all of the time, and when I'm not, I'm thinking about it, writing it, singing it, or dreaming about it. It makes my life interesting.

But I only like music that has a motive. Something that has a message or was written for a real purpose or has a part of someone in it. That is why I hate pop music so much. So much of it is is soul-less. It's written just to entertain the masses, or to shock. It isn't even about anything, or if it is, whatever they're talking about has no value. Uhg. I hate that!

So...what kind of music do I like? Good question. I like weird music, yes.
......Whao. My clock is being really weird right now. WTH? It says it's 13:05 right now. Isn't that army time? Um, I don't think it's called army time, but you know what I mean....
Anyway: weird music. I like indie, alternative, punk.... all of those. They usually tend to have a message. Some of my favorite artists are Jack's Mannequin, Something Corporate, Ben Folds, Kate Nash, The Honorary Title, The Cure, The Beattles, The Bird and the Bee, Catherine Feeny, Ok Go...um, and others. There are a lot of others. I generally have a pretty open mind about music, and I've been exposed to a bunch of different kinds.

Currently, I'm listening to my pod, with the shuffle feature on. (That is sooo neat!) The song that is playing is: Stay Awake by All Time Low

I have so much new music to add, I'm so excited!
FUN FACT: My ipod is red. The song I'm listening to is orange.

Thanks for reading, I hope you had a good holiday!
--Kacie Renn

P.S. Here are some links to some fun music videos:

href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=oPmhTCaDkGA">

Announcements and such...

Hey.
I would just like to announce that I'm taking a break from my blog until Christmas is over. I think. I don't really know; I might change my mind later and post something, but it will most likely be sentimental and holiday cheery. So you probably won't want to read it.
So I have a joke for you, and it's really bad. If you don't appreciate, um...inappropriate?...jokes, then you won't want to see it. But I'm putting it in bold letters, so it will be kind of hard to miss.

What is the difference between Tiger Woods and Santa Clause?
Santa stops at three ho's.

AAAAAaaaaaahhhhhhhh! Man, that gets me every time.

I'm going to go now, before I say anything else offensive or shocking (although that wasn't really shocking, just offensive). Um, yeah. Thanks for reading, see you after Christmas.
(I mean, I won't see you, because, again, this is a one-sided-conversation. We've been over this. Sheesh.)
--Kacie Renn

I'm Baaaaaaaaaaack....

Okay, so because my earlier entry was so craptastic, I'm going to try this again. I feel a lot better (mainly because I made myself an entire tube of Thia noodles (and yes, I ate them ALL by myself)) (Are you aloud to do a parentheses inside of a parentheses?) Anyway, I actually have something to talk about now, or something that actually makes sense anyway. And then maybe I'll babble for a while, and then I'll end the entry. Eventually. Sound good?
So I was blog surfing. I don't know if it's just my computer, but I see a reoccurring pattern in the blogs that keep popping up. Tell me if you've noticed the same thing (Actually, you won't tell me, because this is a one-sided conversation, and if my computer just started spitting small talk out at me, I'd be totally freaked. Or, you know, if you don't want the conversation to be one-sided (I understand that my charms can get pretty sickening) then you can leave a comment. By Jove, what a novel idea! Pure genius I say, Pure Genius!)
Um... Where was I? Oh yeah. The common theme:
There is a picture of a baby on 90% of all of the ones I saw.
Now, don't get me wrong. I love babies, they're cute, yeah yeah, blah blah.
But here's my opinion, which happens to be based on some solid, well known facts: ALL BABIES GROW. At roughly the same time, although everyone is different, and at roughly the same pace. And, yeah, you're baby is cute. Yeah, she said her tenth word today, which was "ummmnumy." Yeah, he threw his first power tool into his daddy's face, causing the whole family to have to jump into the #1 safety pick of 2010 mini van and drive (no faster than the speed limit) to the ER. But guess what?
I don't care.
And neither does anybody else, unless they are close friends, family, or maybe some expecting mothers.
So instead of blogging every single second of every single day of their lives, try keeping a journal or baby book instead. That way, you can log every time they crap their diapers, and you'll always have memories to cherish.

Sorry. That ended up being a little harsh. But really people. Mentioning your family in passing is okay. But it really bugs me when they devote a WHOLE GODDAMN BLOG to them. I mean, I understand that your family is really really really really important to you. But are they the only reason you live? Are they your identity, who you are? Don't you have a personality, a mind, a single thought in your head or your own?
Now we've come to the heart of it. And that's the part that really irks me. And yes, I did just use the word "irk."
I'll tell you something (else) though. If I continue blogging when I'm older and have a family too, then I'm going to do it for myself. I've seen to many mothers give up their identity when they have kids. Too many of them forget who they are, or even that they were a person on their own to begin with. I don't want to be like that.

So, now that that has been said, I'll get to the babbling portion of this entry. Thai noodles are really yummy. My favorite flavor is Thai Peanut. Which is weird, because I hate peanuts. But I love peanut butter. It's a great source of protein. Which is important because I'm a vegetarian. But it's not because I think that animals get treated cruelly, even if that is true. And I guess it kind of is a contributing factor. But the main reason is because I just don't like meat. I think it's gross. I always have. I've also hated pineapple since I was little. And I haven't eaten fish since I was a toddler. My aunt used to take fish oil supplements, and I didn't know how she could stand it. Yeah, I know it's really good for you, but it also smells really bad, and I'd have to force myself to gag it down every day. I take other vitamins, and my mom really pushes the Vitamin D. They are coming up with all kinds of studies that say the vitamin is preventing cancer and other diseases....So I have to take it, because I hate being in the sun, I don't drink much milk, and I'm probably going to go back to Alaska and live there when I'm older. Or maybe Seattle. I'm not sure yet, but it will be somewhere in that region--

I'm cutting this babble fest short because I could go on and on and on, and I would bore you to death, and then I wouldn't have anymore followers. So thanks for reading this, and I hope I didn't scare you off earlier with my first entry today. I promise I'm not really that psycho all of the time. Just recently. I think it's the lack of sleep.

Oh, and shout out to Birdie Blevins (you know who you are... I think) who is writing a story, and posted her first chapter. It was good, and I'll be reading more if she'll let me. Good job! Keepitup.
Buy!
--Kacie Renn

Thinking

So, I told you that I have colored days, but that isn't always true. My days are either colored, gray, or nothing at all. I don't have a "nothing at all" kind of day very often. When one of them does roll around, it isn't a good feeling.
Do you ever have those days when you desperately want to be doing something, but you can't find the energy or motivation to go out and actually do it. That's kind of what today was like for me.
It wasn't a good day. Sure, I have sucky days all of the time, but none that are really bad. Not any more. But today was a rare occasion of one. I don't even really know where it turned; it was starting out as a very good day. Something just changed.
I'm so tired, and I've been thinking too much. I think it's the stupid monologues we looked at today in drama. Some of them got to me. And before that, we watched Hotel Rwanda in my W.C. class. It all just kind of built, until it was too much.
I feel kind of numb right now, and I hate that feeling. I've felt like that before, and it never leads to good things.
I don't want to have a pity party, though. I just want to share my thoughts.
I've been thinking about my life. About all of the good things, and about all of the bad things. Usually the latter I don't like to dwell on. But today, I just can't help it. It horrifies me, it angers me, but I don't want to act like a crazy person, so I just pretend that I'm fine. Like I always do.
But am I?
I've realized some things:
Bad things happen to good people. Why?
Sometimes it's the hardest thing in the world to learn from your past.
Some things just aren't meant to be shared or repeated, and yet you find rumors and gossip every where you look. Do you think that makes the subject of the gossip feel good?
You can't change anything. Once something happens, it's part of you, for the rest of your life. There's no going back, and all you can do is--as sappy as it sounds--move forward.
Sometimes people can't be saved.
Sometimes they can.
And then there are those who just. don't. give. a. damn.
Life's not fair, people get hurt, and they can't be fixed.

In the midst of all of this badness, which makes me want to sink into the ground and live there for the rest of my life, there is good, flickering just underneath the surface.
All of the support that you've built your character on.
The laughter, the things that taught you what was funny.
The love, that you need. That every one does.
Friendship. The feeling you get when you first realize you have true friends, and that they are loyal and would do anything for you.
Warm socks. (I know that this one seems kind of inconsequential, but it really does help.)
Comfort. Having you hand held.
The small things, the individual moments. The things that make you stop in your tracks, and just admire the beauty.

Are the lists even yet? I didn't want to make the good list much shorter than the bad list, because what would that say about my character? Nothing good, I'll tell you.

The second list made me feel a lot better, although it feels strange. I'm not actually feeling anything in the physical sense; this whole battle is in my head, taking its toll.
And that's what I do. I push it down, saying I'll deal with it later, and then "forget" and never consider it again. I purposely suppress it, and I hate that I do it.
I need time.
I need to sort things out.
I need to remember.
I need to scream.

I need to end this blog, because I don't want to drag you down wtih me. Sorry, but I really just needed to talk. Remember all of the good things in my list. Thanks for reading, although I'm kind of regretting that I ever wrote these thoughts down. I'm not sure if I want anyone to see this part of me yet. Too late.
--Kacie Renn

When you have writers block, the only thing you can do is push through it, and write write write write write write write. Really. That many times. And even if what you write is crappy and completely unusable, you've got to do it. Because if you don't everything you write for the rest of your life will be crappy and unusable. I'm not kidding. This wouldn't be the first time it's happened.
But it doesn't make it any easier. I hate it when I write something, and then I go back and reread it, and it's terrible. It's the worst feeling in the world. But it's better to go back and read it myself than let other people read something I think is horrible.
And that is why I haven't been writing very long or informative or crap-your-pants-hilarious blog entries recently. Writer's block is a bitch.
But I'm taking my own advice and writing through it. I have the next installment of the storyforwhichIhaven'tcomeupwithanameforyet. The characters remain nameless so far, too. Actually, I think I might leave them nameless. The only reason I want names is because it would make good conversation in the story. So, if you all have any ideas about names, please feel free to leave a comment with your suggestions. Until then, or until I stop my laziness and do an Internet search for some names myself, they will remain without names.
Without further ado, here is the third part:

..............................

She had laid out all of the supplies she would need to bandage him up, but she kept rearranging them nervously, hedging around actually asking any questions. Of course she was curious, but once she started talking to him, it would be harder to forget that all of this had happened. And that's what she wanted more than anything right now: to forget.

Her mind was working so hard, she was sure he could hear it droning. It buzzed with questions she was just dying to ask. Things that she needed to know. But that wasn't the way she was; she didn't push people. She'd been pushed too many times, and she wasn't ever going to do that to somebody else. She would just have to be patient, and maybe he would explain away the mysteries. Or maybe he wouldn't.

But he wouldn't be able to tell her anything if he was unconscious or worse. That was definitely where he was headed. She sighed. She didn't know anything about first aid, and even if she did, his injuries far surpassed any first aid skills. He needed a doctor. Sighing again, she wondered why he hadn't wanted to go to a hospital. It was more abnormal behavior to add to the list. This whole day had been abnormal.

Looking at the various things laid out on the edge of the bathtub, she was debating on whether or not she should ask him something. An easy question....she could allow herself that. Clearing her throat, she asked, "So why don't you want to go to a hospital?"

She glanced up at him and stopped when their eyes connected. He was looking at her in such an intense way, probing her with his eyes, it was almost palpable. She glanced down at her hands, which she was wringing nervously. Maybe this was a bad idea. Maybe she should just do what she had to and then send him away. If she didn't, she would get herself in too deep to get out again, and then where would she be? She had just opened her mouth to say that, never mind,

she didn't want to know after all, when he spoke. Too late.

"It would draw unnecessary attention, which is something I don't need."

She couldn't stop herself. "Why not?"

She held her breath, but he just shrugged. "Is that what you really want to know?"

Startled, her eyes flew to his face. "Why would I ask otherwise?"

Again, he shrugged, but his eyes never left her face. This time, she didn't avert hers, and they

sat for a moment, just staring at each other, willing the other to share their secrets. He never looked away, and eventually she became uncomfortable and gave in. Her hands were a great thing to be studying today.

She should probably start tending to his wound. Reaching out a hand, she picked up an alcohol wipe, hoping it was the right thing to be using. After all of this was done, she was going to take a class so she could get certified in first aid. As she tore the package open, she said, "Take off your shirt please."

She didn't look at him as he did it, so when she finally lifted her eyes, she was in for a surprise.

It was the biggest cliche in the book. Things like this only happened in movies and romance

novel, and she wasn't in either of those. But even so, she couldn't stop herself from reacting exactly like she was supposed to.

First, she blanched. His torso was covered in blood. It was smeared along his side, dried and crusty. Fresh blood was starting to ooze, and she realized that the shirt he had removed had stanched most of the bleeding. Should she get closer to inspect it , to gage how bad the damage was? Shuddering, an image popped into her head. She could just imagine herself looking and seeing all of his organs, alive and pumping, spilling out of the cut onto her tiled bathroom floor. The visualization was enough to drain all of the blood from her head, leaving her dizzy.

She had to distract herself, so she tore her eyes from the gaping hole and moved up. This was the second phase of the expected behavior in a situation like this. Because she found herself staring at his chest, and as embarrassing as it was, she swooned. Okay, maybe she didn't swoon, but it was something very close. Feeling her face heat up, she blinked, and looked down at her hands, as quickly as she could. It was surprising that he was in such good physical condition, seeing as he was living on the streets. Or was he? Again, she could feel the flush settled over her cheeks.

If she had know that she would react this way once he took his shirt off, she would never have asked him to do it. Except....oh, yeah. He was bleeding to death. That thought sobered her up, and she finally met his eyes. There was an amused twinkle there, but his expression was wary.

She gulped, and again focused on his injury.

She gripped the alcohol wipe firmly in her hand. She took a deep breath and said, "Sorry, this might hurt a little."

He gave her a look that clearly said, "you've got to be kidding me." And then she realized to late what he meant. The alcohol might sting, but it would be nothing compared to the creating of the

wound.

Feeling stupid, she said, "Oh. Sorry." She blushed.

She was getting tired of feeling so stupid today. It wasn't like her to act like she was. The only thing she could blame was this boy. He had showed up, and ever since, she'd been behaving like a complete idiot.

She shook her head, chasing away any thoughts that would distract her from her task. Then she slowly brought the wipe toward his side. Her fingers were shaking. She really didn't have any idea of what she was doing. Suddenly, he was reaching forward, taking the the alcohol wipe from her hand, brushing their fingers together in the process. He lingered for just a second before pulling away. And then he started cleaning himself off.

She looked down at her knees, letting her hair fall to cover her face. "I'm sorry. I have no idea what I'm doing. I've never even bandaged a scraped knee before."

He nodded, but didn't look up from what he was doing. "It's okay."

"No. It's not. I'm so stupid."

At this, he did look up, capturing her gaze. He held it for a moment before he spoke. "You're not stupid. You're very brave."

Her eyes grew wide in surprise, and she bowed her head again. But she could feel his eyes still on her, and it was a heavy look, holding her in place and also warming her. She didn't think she could move if she tried.

The second he went back to cleaning his injury, she knew it. The feeling was gone, and she let out a breath she hadn't realized she'd been holding.

It was quiet for a long time. At several points he had to rip open another package of wipes. She moved the trash can over to him so he would have a place to put all of the soiled ones. She was so used to the silence that when he spoke again, she jumped. "Why are you so hard on yourself all of the time?"

Her head snapped up and she looked at him. She really looked at him, and it was like she was seeing him for the first time. His expression was neutral, him mouth pressed into a straight line. She would have thought that he was completely indifferent, and that his question was just a way to make conversation, except for one thing. His eyes were what betrayed his true curiosity. They were looking at her intently, waiting for her reply, blazing with each second that passed, as if he couldn't wait to hear what she would say next.

She couldn't believe this. It was amazing and scary and crazy at the same time. "Why do you care?" Why would he care about anything concerning her? Who was she to him?

He lost his mask of neutrality, and it gave way to a spark of frustration. "I hardly know you, and yet you're the most interesting person I know. I can't understand anything you do, or why you do it. You aren't like anybody else I've ever met, and yet you don't stick out. I want to know who you are, and why you are the way you are. And I don't know why I care, why I feel this inexplicable draw to you. But I do, and every second I spend with you, my curiosity gets stronger. That's why."

Her eyes were the size of saucers, and she could feel them getting bigger. It was the most he had said to her since she'd met him, and it was the most shocking thing by far. Her mind reeled, and she had no idea what to say to him. Everything was a complete blank.

He frowned at her, and then asked, "So, are you going to answer my question or not?"

All she could do was stare at him. Then she looked down at her hands, something she was doing a lot today. She heard him sigh. Looking up, she asked, "Are you done cleaning the blood off? If you are, we should wrap you up so that the bleeding will stop."

He nodded, never taking his eyes from her face. He looked pale.

She stood and picked up the gauze strips. Then she cleared a little place for her to sit next to him on the tub's ledge. He had turned his head to keep her in his sight, and she was turning her head to avoid keeping him in hers. She picked up a scissors and cut a long strip of the gauze; she wadded it up. Handing it to him she said, "Put this on it to stop the bleeding."

He nodded and did what he was told.

She took a deep breath and shifted so that she could place one end of the gauze on the wound. "Hold this," she said. Taking the roll of gauze, she pulled it across his front, and then under his arm and around his back. She moved her other hand to meet the first, so that she could pull it around front again. But she stopped for a second, noticing that her arms were completely encircling him. As if reading her thoughts, he stiffened. She looked up into his face. Then, slowly, he reached down and touched her forearm, holding her in place. She blinked, and then quickly pulled the gauze around, making a complete circle around his middle.

She repeated this four or five more times, until a thick band of gauze was wrapped around him. She was careful not to touch him again, to just stick to her job and make sure he wasn't going to bleed to death in her bathroom. Once she was done, she busied herself with putting all of the first aid supplies back into the box she had taken them from. The whole time he watched her, but she didn't look up. She wasn't sure if she wanted to see the expressions playing across his face.

When everything was put in its place, she stood, picking up the box. She said, "I'm going to go put this away, and then I'm going to try and find you some different clothes. Do you want any pain killers?"

He nodded, and when she looked at his face, she could see the strain there. She bit her lip and hurried away. It hadn't donned on her before, but he wasn't really in any shape to be going anywhere. That meant that he was going to have stay here for the night, if not longer. Chewing her lip, she frowned. She would have to worry about that later, once she was sure he wasn't going to die. With that thought, she bustled away, looking for the things she needed.

..............................

Th-th-th-th-th-that's all folks! Thanks for reading.

--Kacie Renn

Checking in

Sorry, but I'm not that motivated to write right now. I know it's not a very good excuse, but it's one none the less. I'm working on the story, and I had some of it written, but then I accidentally deleted it. Sorry. I'm really mad at myself for doing it; I should make it a habit to save every thing before I screw up. My life would be a lot easier that way.
I would write it all again, but I really don't have the patience today. Besides, it wasn't all that good. I've got to work on the direction the story is going to take. And I've got to make it so that if a guy reads it, they won't bash their heads against a brick wall because of all the mushiness.
It's something to think about. And it's a project to work on.
Anyway, I'm making this entry really short and really.... well, it's not sweet, because I'm not really in a very good mood. But it's short, and that's a bonus. I might write more later if I make any head-way with the story. Until then,
--Kacie Renn
Thanks for reading.

Fleeting Thoughts from the Preoccupied

I just thought I'd write a little something for the sake of writing. I'm crazy busy, like I wasn't already stressed enough. But I'm almost done with to loads of homework I've been assigned. (Really, I need a pack mule for all of it.) But I needed a break, so here I am.
I was writing a song today in Geometry, but the lyrics turned out really weird, and I found myself wondering why it wasn't coming so easily today. So I decided that if you're going to write a song, being at a piano would probably be the first step. You know, just a thought.
I ate cake today. And that's just the beginning. I can feel my body prepairing itself for all of the holiday candy it's going to recieve next week.
Next week: CHRISTMAS VACATION!!!!!!!!
Oh, how I've longed for this time to come. With the holiday cheer it spreads, (and the inevitable pounds it brings) this is the most magical time of year. And there's no school. At all.
So in honor of this time, I'm going to make up a peom, right now, off the very top of my head. Here it goes:

It's C-H-R-I-S-T-mas!
Buying presents, hauling ass.

(Uh, just kidding. That was horrible. Let's start again:)

Snowflakes falling on my scarf,
my coat,
my gloves,
my dorky hat.

Gathering around the hearth,
to float
like doves
in quiet thought.

The things you see, remembered smells:
warm drinks
and mints
and snowy dreams.

The cleche jingling of bells.
Hear them clink
their faded tints
and depression it demeans.

The overdone tunes and stupid shows
cartoons,
radio stations
Off key singing.

When this madness ends, who knows?
take out a loom
and weave with patience
the joys this season is bringing.

And eveyone will know about it
From the rooftops
They do shout it
That popular phrase:
"Merrry Christmas!"
It carries on the wind's kisses.


Well, that was my poem. I think it turned out rather nice for something I wrote in five minutes. At least after the rocky start. Well, have a great night everyone. Thanks for reading.

Story Corner

I don't know where to start, but once I start talking, it'll get better.

I'm mostly writting to avoid my science homework.

Sooooo........ Um.

Okay, "um" is a stupid word. Who would even think about putting those two letters together to make possibly the most idiotic expression in the world? Surely not me.

................... It's a slow night for my brain tonight. After that racing-mind-slow-reflexes-clarity thing going on last night, it seems like I might be lobotomized today. That's how drastic the difference is. But would I do it again? Yes. Faster than you can say, "Give a cannibal a chance!"

Other than that though, I've got nothing. We had a lock-down in Geometry today, so I didn't get a chance to write notes about my blog like I usually do. So it seems like it might be a good night to continue that short story thing I'm going to do. Here goes, and I'm warning you in advance, you might need to be warned about something. I don't know yet, as I only have the roughest idea of what is going on right now:

..................

She let him lean against the outside of her house as she rumaged in her bag for her keys. She had dragged him the whole block--which was a long one--to a little house with a gray exterior and yellow shutters. The yellow shutters really made it, he thought. If they weren't there, the house would be plain and dreary. But the splash of color made it apparent that the people who lived here had a personality.

It was cold, but it felt good blowing against his over heated skin. If he didn't do something soon about his wound, he would catch a fever, compromise his immune system, and eventually would end up dead. Or he could bleed to death. Both meant the same thing, only one was imminent. It was as imminent as the pounding in his head and the sharp blistering in his side. Dragging in deep breaths, he decided to distract himself from the pain.

He said, "Nice shutters."

She paused in her frantic search, but didn't look at him. "Thank you. I painted them myself."

Oh. So she was the one with a personality, specifically. Hmm...that could prove to be interesting. But instead of asking anything further, he saved his breath, which was starting to come faster. He put more weight against the wall at his back.

Triumphantly, she pulled something small and silver out of her bag and put it to the lock. The trouble was, she was shaking so badly, she couldn't line it up with the keyhole. Why was she shaking? Was she cold? Was she afraid to let a complete stranger into her house? Did the sight of blood frighten her? Or could she be upset that he was currently bleeding to death on her front steps? All seemed like viable possibilities.

All he knew was that he didn't like distressing her, even if it was impossible right now not to. He reached out his hand and laid it on her's, steadying it. She was at last able to push the key into the door and turn it. The door swung open, and she stumbled in, dragging him with her.

Silently, she pulled him into the rest of the house, past the mismatched furniture and pulled drapes, past the the cluttered kitchen table and the dusty shelves without hesitation. He wondered why she wasn't concerned about her parents seeing her. She was dragging a boy through their house who had been stabbed in the stomach. It was all kind of suspicious.

They had reached the bathroom, and she pushed him first into the small, cramped room. She gently put pressure on his shoulders so that he would sit on the edge of the bathtub. He gritted his teeth against the pain and bent his knees to comply. He looked around, unable to keep himself from taking in the room.

It was small and cramped, like he had originally seen. The tiles on the floor where dull, the cracks turning yellow with age. The tub was cracked and gray, and there was a rust ring around the drain. Everything that had once been new and sparkling were no longer so in the slightest. But at least it was clean, and it smelled like honeysuckel.

His attention was suddenly snapped back when he felt her place her fingers under his chin and on his cheek. She turned his head this way and that, inspecting him in the dim light with cool professionalism. But her clammy hands gave away her nervousness. They still slightly trembled, and he wanted to reach up and put his hand over her's. But in a moment he discarded the idea. He didn't even know why he had thought of it in the first place.

He blinked, realizing too late that she had said something, and he had completely missed it while lost in his thoughts. All he could do was stare at her blankly.

She sighed. "I asked you if you had any other injuries."

He mulled it over, trying to decide whether or not he should mention his sprained ankle. Finally he said, "Nothing serious."

She frowned, but didn't push him. Instead she said, "I'm going to go get some bandages and stuff to patch you up. Will you be okay while I'm gone.

He nodded. She exited the room. The smell of honeysuckle left with her.

He let his mind wander while she was gone. He wondered again where her parents where. Where they in the house, in another room? Or were they gone, at work or out shopping or something along those lines. He thought that maybe he should check a couple of the rooms, so that he would know which ones to avoid. Or that was the reason he told himself he was doing it. His nagging curiousity was screaming something entirely different.

As he rose from his perch on the bathtub, he sighed, secretly admitting his true motives. He was curious about her. About how she lived and who she was. What kind of a person took in some random person off the streets, who looked like he was involved in violence, because he had a gaping hole in his side.

Then he remembered the gaping hole in his side, and the pain came rushing back. Funny, but it had disappated while his mind wasn't so intently focused on it. But now it was worse than ever, and he could hardly breath. Maybe he shouldn't go exploring.

But then again, his curiousity was peaked. Once that happened, there was no going back. He took a deep breath and braced himself, standing.

Carefully, he stepped out of the bathroom, looking from one side to the other for her. He didn't want to be caught snooping, after all that she had done for him, and all that she would still do for him....

What she will do.......

He snapped back to his task and took a step forward.

The first door he openned was to a large master suite. The bed was unmade, and dirty laundry was strewn across the floor. There were distinctly feminine clothes and decidedly masculine ones, and he concluded this must be her parents' room. The color palet was drab, mostly done in whites and creams. Everything was simplistic and kitchy. Once he spotted the lace curtains hung on the windows, he decided he was done looking at this room. He closed the door.

The next door he turned to was a closet. He wasn't that interested; it was full of faded linens. He moved on to the next door.

Before he openned it, he just knew it was her's. This was her room. He hesitated. What if it was wrong of him to be looking. He didn't know her, and he had absolutely no right. But the temptation was too great. Taking a deep breath, he prayed that she didn't have lace curtains as well, and let the door slowly creak open.

It was much more than he had expected. There were colors everywhere, the predominant ones sunny yellow and deep blue. He blinked, looking around slowly, taking it all in. Just like the rest of her house, her room was untidy. But it wasn't dirty, not in the slightest. That intoxicating flowery smell was even stronger in here. There were piles and piles of books piled up against her walls, corner to corner. Her furniture was futuristic, but everything was covered in little orange sticky notes. On the notes were tiny scribbles, indiciferable from this distance. Dare he move closer to read some? Just as he had made up his mind to do so, someone cleared their throat behind him.

He whirrled around, and instantly regretted the motion. And as soon as his mind wasn't preoccupied anymore, the pulsing throb was back. He gasped, but held himself together. Barely.

She was frowning, but not in a completely displeased way. It was like she was wondering what on earth he was doing looking in her room, like she had no idea of why he would even want to. Wait. How was he gleaming so much from one look, one expression? He couldn't, not usually. He shook his head, trying to make the image of her saying those thoughts aloud from fly from his head. All the while she was watching him, her frown becoming even deeper.

He had the impulse to apologize, right then and there. To beg her to forgive him for being to rude after she had been kind to him. To explain the draw he felt to get to know her. And he was about to when she stepped closer to him, taking his arm. She slung it over her shoulder and helped him back into the bathroom, shutting the door behind her. Then she sat him back on the tub, without a word about the whole insident. He wasn't fooled, though; the subject would come up later, he was sure. In fact, he was surprised it wasn't coming up now, in the form of angry shouting and throwing him back outside. That's what any normal, sane person would have done if they had caught some guy off the streets in their room.

He was just beginning to understand that she wasn't normal, and very possibly wasn't sane, not completely. She was like no other person he had met...

..................

That was the second installment in the story that I have yet to come up with a name for. Actually, I haven't even come up with names for the characters yet. I thought that maybe if I left them nameless, it would be more versitile for all of the many, many (4? If I'm lucky) people who read this. But now I'm starting to see that they need names. So, if you would like to submit a name..... please Please PLEASE! feel free to leave some suggestions in the comment box. Really, guys. Don't be afraid to comment. I want your critisizm. No, really. REALLY. I do mean it.

Thanks for reading!!!! (P.S. Jessi: fix your ipod and leave a comment. Don't ask questions, just do it. Love you too. :^D)

Have you ever been in that phase, right on the brink of total and utter exhaustion, when you feel like if you take any small lean in any direction, you'll either fall into a dark, looming abyss or loose consciousness? The kind so profound that your mind is racing impossibly fast in between breathing and exhaling, but you are too sluggish to open your mouth and actually say something to prove that your smarter than you were 48 hours ago when you were completely well rested.

Well, I'm at that stage right now, and it's intoxicating, as well as excruciating.

I know that I shouldn't do this to myself. I push too hard sometimes, and I burn the candle at both ends. Except after you've lit them, you realize to your horror that they aren't candles, they are actually DYNAMITE!
But with this stretching comes a new experience; a new exhilaration. All of these thoughts are racing through my mind with extreme clarity, and I can't type fast enough. Or even fast at all, for that matter.
So I'm sitting at the kitchen counter writing this entry, waiting for some tea to cool down so that I can just Un. Wind. (Sigh....)

I'm just really restless because I've been cooped up in my room all weekend. I've read almost three books (roughly 1,000 pages) and I watched that Sci-fy mini series called Alice. It was really good, by the by.

I went to a debate meeting today, and I realized that I had no idea why I was there. It's not like I'm going to be a lawyer of anything when I grow up. I had to think carefully while the coach blabbed on and on and on and on and on and on and on.... Then I finally came to the conclusion that I was there because I hate to sound stupid, as stupid as that undoubtedly sounds. (Ha ha.. the Irony) And-- (Wait. Maybe irony isn't the right word. Let me think.... Okay, I'm officially too tired to recall my literary terms at this time. Sorry for the inconvenience.)

Any. Way. So. Back on track. I had an insight to share with you. This insight also doubles as a Geometry story. Yayyyy!

People have absolutely no manners now. I mean really, how hard is it to hold open the door for someone, or say "excuse me" when you shove past them? How hard is it for a guy to let a girl go out of the door before him? (cough, cough. That means YOU Peipkorn!) Chivalry is dead. Or almost, anyway. And it makes me sad every single day.

So, here is where the story ties in, although it didn't really make me sad (this time) because it was just too funny. Buy hey, I'm tired. It could just seem really funny to me and be completely weird in reality. Here goes:

I was in Geometry. Duh. And my good friend, "Vent-Absurd" (And, no. That is absolutely NOT a fake name for Jenna Berg, just like "Mr. Crappyman was completely not a fake name for Mr. Capistrand., was turned around in her seat. She wasn't talking to me, because we are never very talkative in Geometry. Or, rather, I'm not very talkative in Geometry. I think Vent-a could strike up a conversation with anyone, anywhere if she wanted to. Anyway, she was facing me, or something like that whatever. And then she dropped her pencil.
As it toppled to the ground, it seemed to fall in slow motion. I vaguely recall myself yelling something like, "NOOOOOOOOOoooooooo!" but in that weird, distorted way voices turn when a scene goes into slow motion. And when the pencil hit the ground, there was this loud THUD in my head, like I could ultra-sonically hear it hit the ground. Then everything went quiet.
We stared at the pencil for what must have been five whole minutes, and then we looked at each other. Then back at each other. Then the pencil. With each look we could see the other pleading with their eyes for the other to grab it, because we were so exhausted to reach down and pick it up ourselves. And then we looked up, and an idea sparked.
The pencil had landed right to the side of a fellow classmate, "Trustin' MountHitRear" (Justin Montplesure, this is NOT YOU!). It was laying right next to his hand, which was sagging on the ground because he was slumped in his desk, trying to look cool. I met Vent-a's gaze, and we slowly turned our heads to Trustin'. He remain oblivious.
I was glaring through the back of his head. And when he finally noticed that we were looking at him, his face became panicked. He looked from Vent-a, to me, to the pencil, and then around and around again. All the time I looked at him expectantly. He wasn't really going to make me pick it up, was he? Come on, Trustin'. Do the right thing here.
But he didn't, and it became painfully obvious he wasn't going to do anything. Slowly, I bent my aching, old bones to comply with the level of the floor, and I retrieved Vent-a's pencil myself, all the while cursing Trustin' and his un-chivalrous ways.

See? Wasn't that a good story? Maybe not.

But now that that is over, I have an announcement. By popular demand (thank you Jessi) I will be turning that story I wrote a couple days ago into a multi part story. I'm thankful for all of your enthusiasm, mostly Jessi's. Without her, I wouldn't be continuing it, because, hey. She is popular demand. So thanks.
If you didn't like the story, well. Too bad. Sorry. You don't have to read it if you don't want to.
But as of when-ever I feel like continuing with it, it will continue.
Thank you for reading, sorry about the half-asleep blabber, and make sure to take your allergy meds. They really do help, if in not the way you'd originally intended. (Whoa. Just kidding.)
--Kacie Renn

I See Colors

Today is green. I decided that as soon as I saw the cold winter sunlight pouring in through the window. Today is that really relaxing kind of cucumber green that means meditation and no worries and wet hair because you're too lazy to dry it. It's a summer kind of day, but it's not, because it's a winter kind of day. It's a day where I can be myself and not worry about how that will effect other people.

I'm sick today. Ugh... Didn't I see it coming? I just knew. But in a way, I'm grateful. Being sick means I have an excuse not to do anything. Not even the English project that I accidentally left at school (oops). So, as part of my non-activity, I've decided to write an entry about colors.

You've probably guessed what I'm going to say already, just by reading the heading on this entry. But let me explain. I'm not the kind of person who spends their time surfing the net, looking up disorders and self-diagnosing themselves, mainly to get attention. (I actually don't really know anybody who's like that, but that isn't the point.) I've told people this before, but they either make fun of me (thinking that I'm the kind of person I just explained I'm not), or they agree in that way that makes you feel like a little kid, being indulged. But I'm going to throw all caution to the wind today, because it's a green day. I'll tell you something about myself.

Synethesia- a condition is which one sense is simultaneously perceived as if by one or more additional senses. (http://faculty.washington.edu/chudler/syne.html)
For example, seeing letters and numbers in color.
Now, I'm not saying that I'm a synethete. That's taking it a little far, don't you think? But I think that it's possible. When I think of letters and numbers, I see them in colors. If I see a word in a color, and it doesn't match with the color I know it should be, then it feels really wrong. The colors of the numbers and letters never change, although some of the hues are hard to explain with words. When I listen to music, the sounds have colors to me, and this is even more realistic than seeing letters in color. And for me, feelings are colored too.
I don't want to say that I have this condition. First off, because it sounds crazy. But also because it is very possible that I just have and over-active imagination.
But If I do have it, I wouldn't be surprised. Synethetes tend to have certain traits, such as:

• It occurs in women more than men
• The people who have it are often left-handed
• They are of normal to above average intelligence
• They inherit it from family member

I meet 3 of the 4 requirements, and the forth one (the inherited one) I wouldn't know. But like I said, it's very unlikely. Only 200 out of every 100,000 people have this condition.

Even if I don't have it, I enjoy my colored perceptions, and I think that synethesia is extremely interesting. I can appreciate it with an artists eye. If you're interested in learning more, the link above is where I got all of my information, and there is even more cool stuff on the website. Check it out.

If you're interested, here is what a sentence would look like to me synethetically. Some colors predominate others, making one word be tinted a certain way.

I see letters in colors. This condition is called Synethesia.

Thanks for reading! I hope you don't think I'm a freak.

--Kacie Renn

As I type this entry with green hands, I'm staring at the one pink mermaid sock on my left foot. I'm thinking about this time last year. I'm thinking about the first time I pulled out my coat this year and how it still smelled like last winter. I remember the smell of hot chocolate and snow that was stuck between the ruffles of the fabric. I love that winter so much, and I hope that this one will meet my expectations.
Winter is my favorite season.

Do you know the awkward phase that everyone goes through, where they think that they don't need any friends? They think that they can do just fine by themselves. I remember this phase, and I remember these traitor thoughts running around in my own head. Now, all I can think is how silly it is. In fact, saying you don't need any friends is more ridiculous than the statement, "I want to be a penguin when I grow up." Unless you are a penguin, because then that wouldn't be silly at all. Anyway, my point is, I'm remembering how grateful I am for my friends this holiday season. I just want to say thank you to all of you guys, especially to the one's who follow my blog just because it's mine. I love you guys. :)

So, that was me being sentimental. And I'm going to leave it at sentimental, because I've got that icky sore feeling in my throat, and my nose is starting to run, and I can just feel the cold coming on. Also, I've got three huge English projects that are due at roughly the same time. Not that you really needed to know, but I thought I'd share all the same. (not my cold, the information.) I'm off to do those various things and also maybe finish the story I started righting yesterday...?

Thanks for reading. Watch the news, stay warm, and call or text one of your friends and tell them something you like about them.

--Kacie Renn

Story Corner

Every once in a while I have this itching in my brain that can only be satisfied by uncontrolled, continuous writing. Even blogging a regular entry can't satisfy that craving. So for when this happens, I've created a little segment (that turns out to be not so little most of the time) called Story Corner. So hold on; I'm not sure what you're about to read. (WARNING: the following story may or may not contain facts taken from real life experiences. Just saying.)

(Oh, and WARNING: Since I'm a girl, I have romantic tendancies. This story will probably contain a cute guy. If you're a guy reading this, well, you might not want to read this.)

..............

The stinging wind pricked her face and fingers as she opened the door and left the warm lights of the school building behind. Adjusting the shoulder strap on her bag, she turned toward home and set out at a brisk walk. It was cold, as it should be at the end of November, and there were small piles of snow, the first of the year. The skies were overcast with clouds, buy not in an ominous way. They were more like a blanket covering her, and the effect made her feel slightly drowsy. Although it was not past four in the afternoon, everything was bathed in a white-blue light, like the kind right before dusk. It muted the colors of everything it touched in a comforting way.

As she walked, she let herself be lulled into a sort of trance, sinking into her mind with the help of the constant repetitive motion. Right, left, right, left, right, left..... Just the thudding of her feet accompanied her on her walk, until it sinked with her heart beat as well.

She watched as a pile of leaves was caught up and turned into a small tornado. Some stuck in her hair, and she made no movement to pick them out. Enjoying the weather, she walked to the end of the block, humming some distantly familiar tune under her breath. She could see the crosswalk, only eight steps away from her, and she picked up her pace, eager to cross before and cars came.

As she passed under the last tree on the block, the remainder of its leaves decided to fall on her all at once, sailing down in a large torrent. Surprised, she swiped the air with her hands until she could see again. Looking down, she saw the huge pile of leaves at her feet. She was submerged in them up to her knees. She glanced back up at the naked branches above her head, and as she moved her head, a rush of leaves tumbled off of her head. She realized that they were all over her, everywhere.

She started to brush herself off, disentangling brown paper-like foliage and dropping it at the mess below her. Un-weaving them from her hair and coat, she thought about the slim chances of something like what had just occurred happening. The timing of it all was a little eerie.

Almost done freeing herself from the constricting leaves, she turned back the direction she had been going and stopped dead. In front of her, two streets down, someone was standing, watching her, casually leaning on a tree. Uneasily, she glanced around, and for the first time she realized how deserted everything looked, without any people walking the sidewalks parallel to hers. No cars drove by, and all of the windows in nearby houses were dark. There was no one to help her.

She shook herself; she was jumping to conclusions too quickly. It wasn't deserted. That guy was two streets away. He was somebody, wasn't he? But she still felt restless. It was peculiar that he was there, especially when no one else was. But that didn't mean he meant her any harm.

All of these thoughts didn't stop her senses from sharpening, however, as she took her first steps toward the mysterious guy. The adrenaline coursed through her veins, making her hyper aware of the way her breath billowed into a pool in the frosty air. She suddenly felt the sting of the wind that she had been unaware of before. And she took note of how her eyes were gradually adjusting to the fading light of dusk. She was alone. And he was alone. And she was getting closer and closer to where he stood....

The closer she came, the more she could see of him. He wasn't scary in the the sense of the word. It didn't look like he liked to mug people or get into gang fights. But there was something about him. Maybe the way he held his shoulders, or maybe the dark circles under his eyes that accentuated the darkness of his coloring. He had black hair, black eyes, and as if to counter all of that, his skin was as pale as the snow piled in the yards around them. He was handsome, if not worn by exhaustion. But she found it hard to concentrate on looking at him because he was boring so intently at her face, she couldn't hold his gaze for very long. And she didn't want to.

Closer and closer she came, until she was three yards away. Keeping her head low, she picked up her pace, hoping that he wouldn't talk to her, wouldn't ask her her name or where she lived... Oh god. What if he followed her home? Crossing her fingers against it, she plowed on.

But it was only a few steps before she was stopped short. Looking at the ground in front of her, she saw two sneakered feet planted firmly. Lifting her eyes slowly to his face, her heart thumped erratically with fear. He was blocking her way. Something bad was going to happen.

For a long time he didn't say anything, and the anxiety knotting in her stomach grew. What exactly did he mean to do to her? Should she say something?

Clearing her throat, she asked, "Um, excuse me. Would you mind moving?"

He didn't say a word. But he didn't need to; his eyes spoke for him as they grew wide and darker. She gulped and started to back away. He hadn't exactly done anything threatening, but his intensity was starting to scare her all on its own. Maybe he was insane. It was better to remove herself from the situation.

She was about to turn away when a raspy voice said, "Wait."

She stopped. She exhaled in a cloud of fog that drifted toward him. As it reached him and touched his out-stretched fingers, he stumbled. Reaching his hand out to the tree, he caught himself, but not before his jacket could fall open. She gasped at what was revealed.

A scarlet stain stretched across his stomach in a violent gash. The shirt was torn where the sharp object had penetrated it. Underneath the fabric she could see a raw wound, still oozing blood. She gasped.

"Oh my god! Here, let me help you." She rushed over and pulled his arm around her shoulders, to try and support him. That was why his stance had been so strange; it was amazing that he could have stood upright that long with a wound this big.

He resisted her efforts at first, but after only a few seconds of struggling, he accepted her help. Somehow he managed to pull it off so that it looked like they were a couple strolling down the sidewalk instead of a girl dragging a mortally wounded boy to her house on a frosty evening. She wondered why he was even trying. She hobbled with him, glad that her house was only about a block away.

"Just hold on a little while longer. My house isn't that far away, and once we get there, I'll call an ambulance." She was a little winded, but she managed to make her words sound sure.

As soon as the words were out of her mouth, he tensed. "No. No hospitals. No--" he broke off to clutch his side. Finally, he recovered himself and finished, "No ambulances."

She tried not to let her irritation and confusion show. "Why not?"

"I just--" He gasped. "No. Just no."

She bit her lip and tightened her grip on his arm. Quickening her pace just a little bit, she claimed her revenge for his vague answers. She knew it was spiteful, but she wasn't walking fast enough to really hurt him.

Before this could go on for very long, however, he said, "Please. Trust me."

She stopped, turning to him. "I don't even know you."

He was managing to stay upright by himself, for the moment at least. He looked into her eyes and said the last thing she had ever expected him to say. "But you will."

She was sure she was frowning. Maybe that was why he did it. Maybe he was trying to console her, or let her know that she could trust him. But whatever the motive behind the gesture, it took her completely by surprise.

He reached out and took her hand.

But what surprised her even more was that she didn't pull away, at least not right away.

After a few seconds, she nodded and took his arm again, pulling him down the street toward her house.

...................

I like this story. Maybe I'll make it into a novella. Maybe.

Tell me what you guys think. Don't be afraid to comment; that's what the comment box is there for. Tell me if you want to know what happens. Thanks for reading.

--Kacie Renn

General Questions and Profound Thoughts

I ask questions. So does everyone else in the world. However many questions we ask, there is never a guarantee as to if we'll get the answers. Sometimes, with easy questions, it doesn't really matter. But the other questions we have...sometimes those don't ever get answered. Everything is an investigation, and when that happens, we try our best to be sleuths. Even the best detectives come up short with answers. But just because we aren't promised answers, does that mean we should stop asking?

That was question #1.

We can think about anything that we want to, and yet 50% of the time we don't think at all. We have brains for a reason, but is thinking one of those reasons? (question #2) I'm such a huge endorser of thinking, I never stopped to think of why I advocate it so fervently. Why is thinking such a good thing, and is it really a good thing at all? Why is it so important to develop your thought processes and opinions?
So many things happen in our world every day. Good things are far out-wey the bad things. But people, especially young people, can just forget that it's all happening and continue with their daily lives. There are starving children, women being raped, people fighting for there lives from the effects of war, and somehow it doesn't seem to touch enough. It's so hard to look past the concerns you have to be concerned for others. Buy why is it so hard? (question #3)
Why do I feel the need to share my thoughts and opinions? Why do I feel so satisfied when I make someone see the truth of one thing or another? (question #4) Why is the truth so important? Is it because it hurts people? Because it shows them what's real and what isn't? Those aren't very good reasons to me.

I don't know any of these answers. There are always my opinions on these matters, but does my opinion matter when it's not true? What I'm saying is, don't take any of these questions to mean something opposed to what you believe is right. Don't get the impression that I'm trying to tell you the truth or thinking isn't important. I don't even know what I mean with half of this stuff.

I'll just leave you with this one last thought and some cool song suggestions (P.S. indie folk-influence is the genre of my music this week. But it isn't all that I listen too.):

• Masochist by Ingrid Michealson
• The Story by Tristan Prettyman
• Scar by Missy Higgens
• In my Head by Anna Nalick
• Goodbye Blue Monday by Jeremy Fisher (very appropriate as it's Wednesday today)
• Autumn Fallin' by Jaymay
• Bad News by Zach Hurd

Geometry (The real one this time)

Hello Class! Today we'll be discussing Geometry.

I'm writing about this now because you'll hear me talk about it a lot. Funny things happen in this class. Don't misunderstand me, though. GEOMETRY IS NOT A FUNNY CLASS. But it's humorous in the aspect that if it were a TV show, and you were in the audience watching the whole thing unfolding before your eyes, you would be laughing. A lot. The teacher is mainly to blame for this. I usually take notes on his mannerisms instead of paying attention to the lesson he's teaching.
Okay, I know that last sentence sounded really creepy, but I only think that he'd make a good static character in a book. I don't just go around taking notes on people. I'm not a freak. But below is a brief discription(By brief, I of course mean a lengthy, rambling paragraph that would reduce the toughest of guys into a pile of giggles. Trust me; I have two pages on this guy, and even a lenthy paragraph is being brief.) For the sake of his protection, I've changed the name of the teacher in question. And also because I don't want to get in too much trouble for exercising my right to free speech. I highly doubt that he'll EVER read this blog, but just in case he accidentally stumbles upon it while searching the internet for the correct way to part a comb-over, I've taken the necessary precautions. Here goes:
Mr. Crappyman ( That is absolutely not a made-up alius for Mr. Capistrand) is a tall guy with thinning grey hair that he combs over the top of his shiny, bald head. Thin wire frames sit percariously atop is delightfully bulbous nose, and everytime he moves his head, they wiggle dangerously, like they might fall right off. There are these ugly, scruffed-up shoes that he always wears, and it's rumored that he was born with them on. Although he has a wife, he always gets out of the house wearing atrousciously offensive clothing. He'll wear the EXACT SAME CLOTHING 3-5 days of the week, and as the week progresses, he becomes decidedly more rumpled.
Now, if you've ever seen the movie Ferris Buler's Day Off, you'll remember the teacher. He was memorably monotone whenever he spoke. Mr. Crappyman's voice is surprisingly similar to the teacher's in that movie. (I actually think they might be brothers.) But unlike that teacher's voice, Mr. Crappyman's voice has the super-power to lull you to sleep. Now, I know this doesn't sound that impressive, but when you've witnessed the power of this voice reduce a 320 pound senior to a squishy, sleep-softened lump, you'll fully apprieciate the potency of this power. (I haven't witnessed this specticle myself, but if I had, I'm sure I would be awed, too.) Every student in his class must develope a high-strength shield against this power, which reduces his insistent babble into a dull drone, or be faced with the sheer embarassment of falling asleep during class and drooling all over the desk. Gollygee, what else can this incredible voice do? Well, since you asked, I"ll tell you. When Mr. Crappyman gets excited about the wonders of mathimatical equations and equidistant circumcenters, his voice will jump into dangerously high octaves, sometimes so high-pithched only dogs can hear it. It will continue like this for sometime, until in breaks and comes crashing backdown into the atmosphere. These are just a few of the wonders of "the voice."
Mr. Crappyman is also the world's biggest push-over. If I forgot to turn in an assignment (which he never collects, by the way) I could just concoct some completely false story about how I found this genie lamp, which I accidentally used to turn my mother into a horse, who then preceded to eat my Geometry assignment. He would be completely fine with it, and give me an extra week to finish it on top of it all. And don't even get me started on the pace of his lessons...

That was a mostly inaccurate description of Mr. Crappyman written with aproximately 98.87% true facts.

But good things happen during Geometry, too. I'm my most creative and receptive to ideas in this class. It's like from the moment I enter the door, I go into this wierd trance which allows my left hand to completely take over and write whatever it pleases. While amongst these trances, I've writen good short stories, amazing poems, fantastic lyrics, fantastical musical compositions, side-splitting parody skits, and I've drawn some pretty slammin' doodles, too. And so I'll just say that former President George W. Bush was an idiot, and this entry is definately too long. Ta Ta for now.

P.S. Below are some good songs you can check out...I'm listening to Pandora as we speak. Oh, and also, this entry was way better the first time I wrote it. But unlike the first time, I'm not going to accidentally delete it this time. Here are those songs: :^P

• Jolene by Jay LaMontagne
• Whatever you Want by Vienne Teng
• Beautifully by Jay Brannan
• Mr. Blue by Catherine Feeny

Geometry

"Does Content mean you're Happy" and New songs, classes, and news among other things

Today was a strange day for me. There were a lot of thoughts going through my mind, and one changed drastically from the other. I'll attempt to relate.

In the morning, I was extremely awake, which if you know me, was a strange event in itself. Then, as I looked out of the window in my first class at the snow falling down and the cars passing by, and I realized just how sheltered everyone was during school. When you are there, there is nothing else beyond your small stresses and happy chatter. But looking outside, I saw how thin the walls were between me and the outside world, and it made me sad to think that it had taken me this long to notice. And then I looked around at all of my friends, and I saw that they hadn't yet realized it either.
(WARNING: This thought is pretty deep, considering it's only the second entry. If you don't feel like having any revelations yourself, then scroll down to a different paragraph.)

So here goes my opinion on contentedness:

It really bothers me when people are content. I know this sounds horrible, but let me explain.
It is okay to be content with what you have. I mean possessions. You don't need to be greedy. but relationships, knowledge, experiences...you should always be striving for more. You should always want to know your friends better, always be curious to learn something new, always be ready to try something exciting.
And I hate it when you find those people who are content with being ignorant of the world. They want to stay in their small bubbletheir whole lives, believing everything is perfect, and that nothing bad can happen to them because their bubble isn't just any bubble, it's made of top-grade stainless steel, and they are so sure that it will keep unpleasantness out.
I just want to go up to those people and pop their bubbles.
My mom always says to arm people with knowledge. I agree.
I know it's harsh, and that's why I'm not a bubble popper. If the people who are content with less think that that makes them happyk who am I to contradict them?
But tell me this: is contentedness the same as happiness?

Anyway, that was my profound thought for the day. Just thought I'd share it.

Moving on: in the afternoon I was giggly, and I found this really cute song. It's called "Fly Me Away" by Annie Little. I like it because of the visual imagery I get when listening to the lyrics. Below is a video from youtube that features this song:



This is the kindle commercial and the person in the video is actually Annie Little.


So, back on topic. I was going to talk about some news, and tell some funny stories from one of my classes, but I think this entry is long enough. I'll save that stuff for another day. Thanks for reading...
-Kacie Renn

Sometimes, when you think you have all of your thoughts in order, you realize that you actually don't. And then what do you do? Do make a list? Do you go for a walk? Do you run around like a chicken with its head cut off?

Well, I'm probably more inclined to do the last one, but I thought I would give blogging a try.

It's funny because I love to write. I want to major in English and be an author and publish my books. But blogging has never occured to me, until my very good friend--Mia-Ashe-- suggested it. But as soon as she did, it made perfect sense. It's the perfect outlet for all of my creative juices, and I can make it as anonymous as I want to. I could say anything on this blog.

And thus, a hobbie was borne.

So, first off, there are some rules/standards I live by that you'll probably find constantly occuring in my writing. Below they are listed:
1) I never use the word nice when applying it to people. Never.
2) When I write, I have a very unaffective filtering system, so you'll often find shocking and/or unusual things writen
3) I don't actually expect a lot of people to read this. So if you are reading this, this is all me. 100%. Uneditted and illicit.

I want this blog to be amazing. I hope I meet my own standards. Thanks if you read this. And if you don't, then you won't ever know the difference.

--Kacie Renn Lynshah