Trust

You can’t trust what you can’t see,
Life hides the path and hidden the key.
An open field so warm and soft,
Then sparked by fire, a deadly cough.
Open the heart, let someone in.
Dance and laugh, alive again.
Until an action’s a dagger deep in the back.
Bleeding on the ground, it all goes black.
Hardened and shielded and locked in a safe,
A heart slowly dies at a chronic pace.
Until a brave robber comes to steal its gold,
That ram shackled heart he tenderly holds.
Fly like a dove and fall like sparrow,
Trust that pain comes as swift as an arrow,
But hold your head high, tomorrow’s a new day.
Now is the time to wash the pain away.

Written in 2013.

You Claim You’re an Author…

I know there aren’t many followers to this site, but I’m hopeful I’ll get more. I hope to build a strong platform that might catch the interest of an agent that they’ll consider offering me representation. Representation for what? Well, to those of you who’ve read my bio, you might have noticed that line where I claim to have written a novel and yet, nothing about that novel is on this site. So, there lies the question of “You claim you’re an author, but where’s the novel?”

I love stories. I love reading them, watching them in movies and tv shows, and hearing them through word of mouth. I was definitely that kid in class who was daydreaming about different stories (whether fanfiction or original) instead of paying attention to what the teacher was saying. If you go through the notes I took throughout my schooling, you’ll find tons of doodles that corollate to one of the stories in my head. I just love stories! I love the escape from reality that they offer and the adventures into unknown lands that they take you on. I love the lessons they teach, the characters involved, and a tension-filled plot. My favorite types of stories are fantasies with knights and mages, elves and centaurs, magic and heartache, so on and so forth. So, naturally, my novel is a fantasy with brave and questionable knights, headstrong mages, and elves with keen senses. If you want to imagine a setting for the story, think of a land inspired by Narnia: a beautiful landscape with dwarves mining in the mountains, fairies and fauns dancing through the forests, centaurs standing guard on the plains, elves in tuned with nature, and, yes, your typical human too. The capital of this magical land is bold and majestic and harbors a castle as mighty as the castle in “Hyrule Warriors; Age of Calamity” (before it got destroyed, of course).

Now, you might be thinking: “this sounds cliché. Knights, Narnia, and majestic castles have all been done before,” but the setting doesn’t make a story–think of all the novels out there set in New York or a small midwestern town. My novel has far much more than just a beautiful setting, and if you ask me, the most important thing it has is its characters.

Well, duh! All novels have characters! However, when it comes to my novel, the characters are the ones who drive the story. Sure, the plot is a bit “Lord of the Rings” like with some ancient artifact needed to destroy the big bad guy, but it has taken a lot for my characters to finally put that plot in place. It took me ten years to complete my novel and I have experienced it all from my characters. They’ve made me laugh. They’ve made me cry. They’ve stabbed me in the heart and have stabbed me in the back. They’ve been there for me when I was down and I’ve been with them through every part of their lives. Years ago, I had to do a complete revision of the whole novel and it was hard. I didn’t want to accept that my precious novel needed work and that some of the characters just weren’t making the story the best it could be. Yet, like the growing author I am, I sat down and had a “conference” with my characters. We figured out what was working and what wasn’t and how things could change for the better (and it certainly gave me some new ideas for later down the road). Then, I started writing the novel all over again from the prologue to the end and I couldn’t be happier with how it all turned out. It is definitely a story worth reading.

Yes, I know. I’m bias. As the author, I think my novel is the greatest in the world, but I’m not so foolish to not ask for feedback. I’ve had a few alpha readers (nonwriters) and one beta reader (an actual writer) read it so far and I’ve had only good reviews. Now, with how busy life is, my readers can’t always get a chapter or even a paragraph back to me, but what feedback I’ve had has helped me tremendously. I’ve rewritten scenes based on feedback and those new scenes have only improved the story. Like I said, I’ve yet to have someone tell me the story isn’t interesting or the writing isn’t good (at least, no one will admit that to me if that’s what they really think). So, I’m going to continue to push forward with my novel and all the novels I want to write in the future (the next one I have planned is a sci-fi). I’ll keep querying my agents in my free time and I hope all of you will help me by promoting my website, stretching my author platform, and showing interest in my novel. If anything you’ve read so far has prodded at your curiosity, feel free to like this post or comment down below (you may have to have an actual WordPress login to do so. I’m still working out the kinks of this site). I’ll post updates about my progress and give more sneak peeks into my novel later down the road. So, stay tuned!

Terror of Gebakajeezer

               The pride of losing a bet could make you do some pretty stupid things. You compete with your rivals in a daring test of skill and when you lose, the worth of your word is on the line. Defeat weighs heavily on you and you start regretting making the bet in the first place, because that bet–that humiliating defeat–has landed you right at the gates of the Ol’ Gebakajeezer Manor during the darkest hue of the night.

               You stuff your hands in the pockets of your jacket as an autumn breeze stirs through the air. The long shadows of the trees stretch toward the manor on this moonless night and your only light is the billions of stars overhead. It was said Gebakajeezer was a rich old man, but his family abandoned him to his enemies long ago when they discovered he was in league with an evil “witch.” Authorities tried to arrest Gebakajeezer and burn the witch; however, they found them in the middle of some dark ritual. Gebakajeezer died that night. They say he was shot during the struggle and the witch burned alive. Then, in the weeks that followed, Gebakajeezer’s family suffered accidents. Accidents that led to their deaths. It’s said that Gebakajeezer’s spirit and the soul of the evil witch haunt the manor to this day.

               You glance over your shoulder to your rivals in the bushes behind you. They snicker, each one anticipating your cowardice and expecting you to not even step onto the property. Your goaded pride overcomes your weariness and you approach the gate of Gebakajeezer.

               The entire property is surrounded by barred fences and the rusty, creaky gate is the only way onto it. Long ago, the lock was broken by others who’ve attempted to enter the manor, but you can’t recall whatever happened to those people. The road up to the manor was grown over gravel and you shift your eyes around the yard in the light hope and fear that someone would stop your trespassing. Yet, the yard is empty of the living. A few trees sway in the chill of the night, bare branches clattering together like bones. You spot something beneath one of them and you swear it’s a gravestone. Crows caw from the tree’s branches and start skips your heartrate faster. You focus your eyes on your destination and keep going.

               The manor must have been beautiful in the time of its prime. However, it’s only a shell of remains now. Loose shutters bang against splintered siding. Windows, once elegant, were now broken and dark. You try to peer into one, but nothing but an abyss of black peers back.

              The floorboards of the front porch creak under your weight and hesitance causes you to linger. The manor’s door appears to have once been barred, but pieces of wood were laying on the withering welcome mat. The nightly breeze stirs again and you shiver at the eerie quiet of the property. The doorbell catches your eye and trepidation pounds in your ears. You watch the little black button as if locked in a staring contest. The harms of pressing it weigh in your mind. With how old the manor is, the doorbell probably doesn’t work anymore and your rivals are still watching you, waiting for your courage to run out.

               Finding a few moments of bravery, you reach for the doorbell. The heavy sound of a bell tolls through the air and your muscles freeze. The whole house trembles under your feet and bats flee from the towers of the manor. Right after the bell’s low note faded away, a wolf howled from the forest.

               You remain frozen for a couple moments, fearing that any movement would cause Gebakajeezer’s ghost to strike you down. Yet, nothing but a few leaves drift across the porch. An easy breath slips from your lips and you lower your arm.

               The next moment, an uncanny creak screams through the night. The front doors of the manor slowly swing open and fear has you frozen in place once again. Heart-pounding seconds beat in your ears like a drum, but when doors open wide, nothing steps out into the moonlit night. You try to peer through the darkness, but what lays beyond the doors is hidden in black shadows.            

               Curiosity gnaws at you like a nibbling rat the longer you stare into the blackness. You take a step forward and when nothing happens, you step again. You step further and further until you can finally see what lies hidden in the manor. Covered furniture is like petrified ghosts under the layers of dust and cobwebs. The air tastes stale and a draft courses the hollow halls. Straight ahead, a marbled staircase stretches to the upper floor, but time had dulled and cracked it. Gilded wooden handrails were rotted and crumpled by termites. Elegant paintings were torn on the walls and the floor beneath your feet was weakened and creaked. When stillness is the only thing lingering in the vestibule, you determined your bet satisfied, and you turn to take your leave. However, the front door is now shut.

               Panic skips your heart as you don’t remember seeing or even hearing the door close behind you. You quickly reach for the knob to jerk it open; yet, it only jiggles and the door doesn’t budge. As much as you try to shove and pull and break your way through, the rattling door remains as strong as a vault and you’re unable to get it open. You shout for help, but bite your tongue. Likely, your rivals wouldn’t be able to hear you and you aren’t sure you want anything else knowing you’re here. Your panic has you shaking, but you keep attempting to get the door open.

               “Come here. Come here.”

               The color drains from your face when a dainty voice catches your ears. As much as you wish you were wrong, you know you heard it. It sounded far away, as if coming from the heart of the manor, but you can’t deny the chills that curled your spine. The voice sounded spectral and your first fear is Gebakajeezer, but when logic catches up to your fear. You realize the voice is coming from a woman.

               “Come here. Come here.”

               By now, your throat has gone dry and tremors rattle your bones. Your hope of breaking down the door fades away like a forgotten dream and you realize you have no choice but to face what lays in the manor. Slowly, you turn around and terror shoves you against the door when you spot a woodcutter’s axe lodged into one of the furniture. You know that wasn’t there before.

               “Come here. Come here.”

               Gradually, you start for the staircase and you refuse to take your eyes from the axe in fear that it might come after you. It never moves and you make it safely out of the vestibule and further into the manor.

               The halls stretch on like a teasing dream and are darker than the night itself. You tread slowly on haggard carpet and barely make out the décor along the walls. Brass wall-lights are snuffed out. Tall cabinets, covered by sheets, sway like ghosts in the manor’s draft. Paintings of people you don’t even know watch you as you slink down the halls.

               “Come here. Come here.”

               The voice is a little bit louder now and you determine its coming from the direction that must be the master suite. The closer you get the slower you go, like you’re walking on ice and each step needed to be tested else you’d fall through and drown. When you finally reach the master suite, the voice sounds again. It courses chills down your spine. The voice sounds so sweet like an enticing lullaby, but your fear keeps you from being fooled. As a woman’s voice, you determine that it wasn’t Gebakajeezer’s ghost you had to worry about, but the evil spirit of the witch. She called again, her words stretching longer down the halls.

               “Come here. Come here.”

               Against your better judgement, you slowly raise your hand to grip the latch of the master suite’s doors. The metal is as cold as ice and it drops a heavy weight of dread in your stomach. You take a deep breath and hold it before shoving the doors open wide.

               The bones of human remains lay in the middle of the master suite and the sight of them strikes you with terror so deep, it takes a moment for your mind to catch up. Gebakajeezer had been laid to rest in the manor’s yard, so who’s bones ere…Horror pales your face when you remember you aren’t the first one to tread foot here. Others before you had broken the lock on the property’s gate and pried open the doors of the manor just to see what was inside. Now, you remembered what happened to them: they were never seen again.

               “Stop!”

               The moment before you would’ve turned tail to run, a spectral being appeared in the middle of the master suite. The being was a woman in long, white, flowing robes. Her hair stretched down to her hips and floated as if she were underwater. The sheer appearance of her froze you in fright, but it was her face that had you lingering. She didn’t appear to be a witch. Her face was soft and as pale as the moon. She stared at you with uncolored eyes and a gaze that appeared to be pleading.

               “Come here. Come here.”

               She was pleading. You heard it in her tone and sorrow dipped her face when she spoke. Yet, you didn’t move. Curiosity kept you from running away, but hesitance kept you from going closer to the ghost. You glanced back down at the bones beneath her, but she draws your attention away when she speaks again.

               “Come here.”

               The ghost stretches her hands out to you and you feel compelled to step closer. The icy chill in the room has you shivering and your heart is racing a thousand beats per second. Your feet step closer despite the warnings screaming in your mind. Its was as if the ghost had you under some sort of spell to draw you in against your will. You manage to break eye contact with her and glance back at the bones beneath. If you didn’t do something, you had a feeling you’d share their fate. The ghost leaned forward and you notice a restriction in her movement. Her hands are raised to grab you, but she couldn’t extend them out. Violet, spectral wisps were drifting around her wrists and they extended back to the king-sized bed at the far end of the room.

               She was trapped! That realization clicked like a switch in your brain and you stopped just shy of her grasping hands. A smile had been widening on her face with your every step like a beast ready to devour you. This wasn’t some helpless ghost, you decided. This was definitely the evil spirit of the witch and Gebakajeezer must have bound her here before he died.  You manage to take a step back and when you look back at the ghost, fury turned her colorless eyes black.

               “Come here!” Her voice raised like a banshee’s scream and the beauty of her face twisted with frightening wrath. “Come here!”

               The sheer panic that came over you freed you from the witch’s spell and you bolt out of the suite and back down the halls. The ghost let out a blood curdling scream the moment you fled and the whole manor shook with violent tremors. You try to race into other rooms to find a way out; however, every door and window was trapped in the witch’s magic. They would open and shut so swiftly and brutally that you knew you would break a bone if you tried to cross them. You run in any direction that would lead you further away from the witch; however, your flight is always cut short at the aggressive slamming of the doors.

                In the middle of a hall, you stop, terrified and uncertain of what to do next. You feel like a mouse surrounded by traps and all you can do is avoid the witch at the heart of the manor. Eventually, your mind is able to catch up to your fear and you realize that every door you’ve come across was caught in the witch’s magic. Every door. Which meant the front door must be as well.

               Hope dashes you down the hall and another blood curdling scream resonates from the witch. The covered furniture begins to lift off the ground and fly at you at crashing speeds. You manage to duck and dodge a few; however, when you reach the staircase that leads down into the vestibule, a cabinet slams into your side. You’re tossed down the stairs and the marble punches bruises into your skin. Just as you hoped, the front door was slamming open and shut again and again like the rest of the doors in the manor. You begin to shove yourself to your feet when the woodcutter’s ax from before lodges into the floor right next to your hand.

               Fright locks you in place for a moment, but your desperation for freedom powers through. You rise to your feet just as the ax pulls from the floor and have to dive away in order to avoid its swings. As much as you want to run for the exit, you know your timing has to be right. If you try to escape at the wrong moment, the front door will shut on you and an ax would lodge into your spine. You dodge the possessed weapon while trying to count the rhythm of the front door’s banging. The ax soon has you pinned against the wall and you have no choice but to make your move. The moment the door slams shut, you dive for it.

               The door opens when you reach it and you feel it starting to close on you as you slip through. You fall hard onto the front porch, your foot narrowly escaping the bone-breaking slam of the door. A loud THUNK sounds behind you and you cover your head in fear of the ax, but all the world falls into the silence of the night.

               Slowly, you peer over your shoulder. The front door remains shut with the blade of an ax peeking through the center of it. You gradually slide off the front porch and don’t pull yourself to your feet until you’ve made it to the yard. Your steps are quick and your heart is still pounding as you back away from the manor. The face of the evil witch still burns in your mind, but you escaped her. Come daylight, you swear you’ll return to board up the manor completely and pray that no other soul would test the prisoner inside Ol’ Gebakajeezer.  

Nock, Draw, Aim

Nock, draw, and aim, release that volley of arrows down on the enemy, make sure the bow’s properly strung, unstring it and string it again if you must. Don’t squeeze the grip too hard, focus and fire, ashamed at the sleeper on the battle-field, he had been warned by the driver of the movement. Tattooed with blood, let them faint at the smell, embarrassed by their own answer. Smile as you give direction for another set to sing down at the enemy. Shoot at the high-step, the roll-step, the long-step; this is not practice you’re not here to rehearse. Bully the enemy; make them hang up to dry, see them walk, convinced about giving up. Throw down the calling, prevent their dodge. On your count take control, cook them, then soak them, wash them away. Speak and they’ll eat or drink your revolving fire. They carried their boastfulness, amused as you opened fire, they mocked at the birth of your attack, played marbles as they saw you’re not a threat. You were buying your time, waiting for them to put up a weakness, now you play with their entrails, victory secured.

Written back in October 2013, this piece of writing was a Verb and Noun assignment. You basically list a set number of verbs and nouns that you experience throughout your day or throughout a certain time period. It’s a challenging exercise, especially when you find yourself with verbs like “playing marbles” or “high-step, roll-step, and long-step.” I encourage every aspiring writing to see what you can come up with.

Running Through the Days

            Work in the morning on Monday and finish up last week’s that evening; work all day on Tuesday and cram in some late that night; don’t work on the weekends during times of chores; clean the house until it shines; stop what you’re doing to avoid trouble; when cleaning the dogs be sure your rag doesn’t have mud on it, or else they’ll never get clean; stick the frozen dinner in the freezer, let it sit for tomorrow night; no one’s home then so relax and work; eat it to your delight, no one is watching you scarf it down; on Sundays open up and see a movie, enjoy the friendship found at church; finish your work, it’s due in two days; work with the horses, harness them right, set them free in the arena since the barn still ain’t up; return home time for a night walk; bring the knife just in case; relax, enjoy the stars, watch as the dogs pitter out; don’t forget that work that’s due. Early in the morning, late to rise; no time for a shower now; get fixed up, eat, and remember that work that’s due? Scramble through morning work, finishing tomorrow’s; time back home do this, do that, clean this, cook that; computer’s open finish some work; back to free writing; can’t sit at that desk long enough for a sentence to be done; I think I’ve paused this song three times in one verse; finish the story plot a new one; time for dinner, say grace, dig in, guess who’s cleaning up? Back at the desk the mind bursts with creativity; draw this, write that, his name, her name, what about the main character? He’s a lizard, him an orge-thing, that geek looks cute as a cat; the Blue Knight? To easy? What’s this station look like; draw the picture; define the title, make it right; he can be yellow, no make him green; woah! Look at the time, time for bed; but what’s her name? Into pajamas; under the covers; but the mind can’t shut down; this is his name and that is his name; the Earth perfect! I need a translation; time for bed, go to sleep; but she still needs a name! Oh snap! There’s more work to be done for tomorrow; wake up for a shower; eat; pack a lunch; check that work; three assignments?! There’ll be time between classes; gotta skip lunch; time to go; make the day; shoot until you’re fingers are sore; work on that work; see what else the days lay ahead.

Creative Writing Project written October 1st, 2013

Puppy at the Ropes Blog Post.

Over the past week, I’ve started a new job at an animal shelter and I really like it. However, like all jobs, you have to go through a training period and I hate training periods. I wish I could just skip it and get to the part where I actually know what I’m doing and not wandering behind my coworkers like a lost puppy. I try to jump in and help where I can–I mean, I’ll even go scoop poop just to have something that I can do–but there are a lot of ropes to learn at an animal shelter and it doesn’t help when the animals are constantly coming and going. I’ll finally learn who a dog is and suddenly that dog is adopted–which is great! We want our puppies adopted, but I finally had that one in my memory banks and now I gotta clear it out to make room for the other pups we get in.

Its definitely the first day that’s the hardest for me. I go in and stand around, titling my thumbs, and not knowing where the shift starts, Then, a coworker snags me as their shadow and I follow them around, watching how things are done around the shelter. Just watching…standing there and watching…
I hate watching! I want to help! I want to get my hands in there and do my part, but when you don’t know the routine, you can just stand there and watch until you’re told what do to. “Go get this.” “Grab that.” “We’re going to go do this now,” and I’m tagging along like a pup biting at the leash. Then, there’s all the little things people think of when they’re explaining stuff to you. The typical: “Oh, by the way…” that may have nothing to do with the task at hand, but is important for something else later on, and you gotta remember it.

Thankfully, my new coworkers are awesome and they understand that things can get a little overwhelming–especially with covid going on. I’m doing my best to remember things and build the muscle memory of certain tasks and I’m sure some of my coworkers might be getting frustrated with my questions (I’m really bad at names, so I’m constantly asking: “Ok, who was that?”). I’m grateful for this opportunity and I’m hopeful that I won’t let my coworkers or the animals down. I just hope I can get past the part of being a puppy at the ropes soon, but we all gotta go through it.

Metronome of Memories.

Walking through campus and what do I hear?
But a metronome screaming in somebody’s ear.
The closer I get the ground starts to quake.
At the powerful rhythm many drummers did make.
At their sight, I can only smile.
They brought up some memories that’d been lost for a while.
Of a cool, stormy night under a harvest moon.
Where those in the bleachers swayed and swooned.
Young eagles stood tall and marched on a field.
Even in rain, they refused to yield.
Their show began quiet, a nice eerie low.
Then a four-count wheel and they finally did blow.
Their song sent the audience in a cheering craze.
For these screaming eagles who knew how to play.
The horns boasted notes that gave you the chills.
While the drums were strengthened by sure wills.
Even the flutes, though soft, could be heard.
Their arms actually straight, no trace of a curve.
To no surprise, those eagles claimed gold.
Even though they were quite shivering and cold.
A year of pride and great celebration.
They took the gold at every occasion.
Through their days they practiced in heat.
Keeping in rhythm to a pounding beat.
Just like these drummers, swinging their sticks.
Staying in time, tick after tick.
So now, I’ll pause and give thanks right here.
For the metronome screaming in somebody’s ear.

Written in June, 2018. Feature photo taken on my high school band trip.

Writing prompt: Chasing the Enemy

I received a book of writing prompts a couple years ago where you have to use certain words in your writing. I wrote this prompt back in 2018, I hope you enjoy.

Use the following words: Demon, bystander, escaped, parakeet, destiny, hammer, singing, ash, cathedral, heels.

               Ash covered the ruins like a thick, suffocating blanket. Dark clouds covered the sky, blocking out the light of the sun so the land laid in a red, musky haze. Soot drifted in the air like falling snow. A stirring wind brought chills to my bones. I walked up the the steps of the cathedral, my heels dipped with the blood of the ruins. Monsters had raged through this once proud city and I had been a worthless bystander, watching from the cliffside. I arrived too late to save my hometown. Not a soul escaped the monsters’ wrath.
               The light breeze tickled the holes of the cathedral ruins, singing in low mourning for the destruction of the innocent. I stopped right before the cathedral doors. Sweet memories of my childhood playing in my head like an old jukebox. I attended Church every Sunday before the monsters’ invasion. My sister had been a part of the choir and it was here that we nursed that blue parakeet back to health. Yet, my childhood was now over. Those sweet memories would never return.
               I shouldered my hammer, a big clunky thing that was stained by the smashed skulls of monsters. The King of the Monsters would be inside this cathedral. A monstrous demon of wrath and destruction, defiling the House of God with its presence. I may have walked my own path for many years, but Lord willing, this demon will meet its fate at the end of my hammer. I reached for the doors and took a deep breath to fan the flames of my anger. Mother Mary, let this be my destiny.

Loved

Midnight, the air is tinged with the scent of death.
Living coward in fear as blood washes the streets turning everything red.
Kindling a wildfire to rampage the streets, a man destroys all that is loved.
Justice to be done in the heat of the night,
Ignorance or refusal drops a man six feet into the grave,
Heavy sins pushing you further, but who be the man that put you there? You or the killer?

Granted, the wildfire cursed many to the dark depths, and was sparked by the killer.
Flee? Many tried, but who can escape the flames when snatched by the fingers of death?
Everyone, sooner or later, rides the sorrowful hearse to the grave.
Do you deserve the winged flight up? Or the pushing fall to the fiery sea of red?
Count yourself lucky to be here another night,
Because you shouldn’t go on believing the lie that you aren’t loved.

After death stand the scale, either route you are loved.
Zanies cheat, avoiding with trickery, but nothing stops the killer.
Yellow light calls those who love and pulls them from the depths of night.
Xyris dressed beautifully and cared for, last not long, till the sting of death.
Wouldn’t you who are created alike, be loved longer than the roses of red?
Victory belongs to the holder of the Spirit; conqueror of the grave.

Under love, the sting has been lost, no power to the grave.
Turn up to the light, see it shining bright, and know that you are loved.
Stand now, in the wildfire, be untouched as it turns all red.
Run strong, run hard. In combat, destroy the works of the killer.
Quietly he falls, take heart and move on. Life has avoided sweet death.
Peace to you in this moment, but after day comes another night.

Oppression ambushes leaving running red blood after the piercing bite of death
Never are those the Spirit calls loved are seized by the darkness of night.
Midnight, the grave is fed by the bloodthirsty killer.

I wrote this poem in 2013 for my creative writing class. It was selected to be published in my school’s Creative Writing Magazine. It’s been sitting in my files with dust on it for a while. I’m glad to be able to clean it off and share it. To this day, I’m still proud of it.

Memoir Writing Prompt: Childhood Illness or Injury

               I never really had a major injury or illness throughout my childhood. I was always the kid that never broke a bone, never sprained an ankle, or never got that dire disease that was floating around (like today’s corona virus). I remember, when I was young, always seeing my friends or fellow classmates limp around on crutches from a broken leg, or only able to use one arm because they broke a collarbone or wrist, and everyone wanted to sign their casts (it must make you feel pretty special to know everyone wants to sign your cast). I still don’t know what it was like to break a bone and I’m honestly curious about how much pain it causes. Yet, as curious as I am, I certainly hope I never have to experience breaking any of my bones.  
               My most notable illness was probably my yearly strep throat. I got sick every year with strep—usually in the late fall. We’d go to the doctor and they’d shove a q-tip in the back of my throat as a swab to test me, and I would gag and cough and, I swear, that stupid swab was the worst part of getting strep (having the illness wasn’t even that bad). At times, I didn’t even know why we went to the doctor. I knew I had strep the moment I told my parents I wasn’t feeling well. However, my parents wanted to get the prescription and I would have to take it and it tasted awful. Then, I would be out of school for a couple of days. Staying home from school was my favorite part. I’d lay on the couch all day and watch my favorite cartoons or even play my brother’s video games when I was the only one in the house. It was great!
               Eventually, I did grow out of it. During high school, I realized that strep didn’t make me stay home the first year and I was hopeful that I would never have strep again. However, it was a heavy disappointment when I realized that strep wouldn’t be making me stay home from school anymore (I guess I could’ve tried to get the flu so I could stay home). I was starting a lot of new hobbies in High School—writing being the major one—that I wanted to work on and those days home with strep could help purse that more. Yet, I have not gotten strep since, but I still found time to greatly improve my writing skills.
               So, I’m still the girl who’s never broken a bone and never had a major illness. Hopefully, my luck holds out, but if it doesn’t, then I’ll just have a new experience to write about.