Wordy Wednesday: Captain America and the Brain-Eating Amoeba

Merry Christmas Eve!!!

Since I got home for break, it’s been a whirlwind of family bonding stuff, catching up with friends, and catching up on life. (I think I go to more doctor appointments over winter break than the rest of the year combined.)

It’s weird being home. I haven’t spent more than a few days at a time here since May, and now this is where I’m at for two weeks, and it’s just. It’s weird. (Not bad weird, of course. I love finally being able to see everyone again. But definitely weird.)

In other news: In a moment of weakness (read: boredom) at one in the morning, I joined Instagram. So far I’ve posted two pictures and they have both involved my dog. You can check me out at: instagram.com/julia_the_writer_girl

This week’s Wordy Wednesday is the short story promised after my tangent last week. I wrote this for my creative writing class this semester, but could never get it to work quite right, but it’s really weird and I had fun writing it. So here we go.

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“You shouldn’t do that.”

The boy stands a few feet from the edge of the lake, arms crossed and barely visible blond eyebrow cocked. He’s wearing a red Arsenal FC soccer jersey, khaki Bermudas, and a pair of navy blue Converse high tops that barely peek over the untamed grass.

How British.

I roll my eyes and return to floating on my back. “Why? Amoeba going to eat my brain?” I squint against the sun and pull my t-shirt flatter against my stomach. Thank God I was too lazy to bother taking my clothes off before diving into the lake, or this could be really awkward right now.

As is, the boy stands beside my discarded socks and ugh, yes, Converse high tops. He glances at the baby blue shoes and a muscle ticks at his jaw. “No.” The disgust in his voice is as thick as the leek and potato soup the inn served my family last night. And the night before. “Ever thought it might be bad for something other than you to spread your germs through that lake?”

I’m really not in the mood to deal with angsty British dudes today. Not when Rachel and Becca are halfway to Disney World on a chaperone-free road trip right now because their parents actually believe the law that states being eighteen means you’re a responsible adult.

And instead I’m stuck here, alone for yet another afternoon, a casualty of my parents’ research trip. In Wales.

“Ha.” I kick water in the boy’s direction. Maybe slightly more forceful than necessary. “Who cares. It’s hot and the water’s cool and no one’s around to reprimand me.” I roll my eyes again. “Except you, of course. What are you anyway? A park ranger?”

“A concerned human being.”

“No such thing.” I laugh, the sound a bark, and kick more water in his direction. “You have to at least be a crazy tree hugger or something.”

He lets out a breath. Crinkled lines stripe his forehead like his entire face wants to get in on the act of frowning. “You’re American?”

Somebody give that kid a prize.

I lift my hand towards the sky and my clenched muscles loosen as I watch the water droplets fall towards me, sparkling like crystal.

Birds sing somewhere in the hills. A sheep baas. The breeze plays with the long grass and rainbow of wildflowers that stretch in every direction.

My voice goes quieter. “Only by definition.”

“What’s that mean?”

I shift so I’m treading water rather than floating. “Yes. I’m American.” I look at the crumbling mountains surrounding the lake; the bluffs and boulders and stepping stone paths. This place is so clearly not the United States.

I want to go to Disney World with my friends.

I add, “Painfully.”

“I’m sorry.” He frowns. His eyebrows lower to a furrowed position. “You’re still going to need to explain that one.”

How does one go about explaining her own suckiness?

“I don’t know.” I shrug. The clear-as-air water shifts away in little rings of ripples. “I watch reality TV and listen to bad rap. I spent all of twenty-twelve in Toms shoes, not because I care about Africa, but because my friends thought it would be cool to look like we did. For my summer vacation, my parents dragged me to Wales, not because they want to spend time with me, but because they don’t trust me enough to leave me in Philly while they’re out here studying water pollution for a month. Or to go to Disney World with my friends, even though I’m just as responsible as Rachel and Becca, and their parents let them go, I’m just saying. But no. I’m in Wales instead of hanging with Mickey.

“And, to top it all off—and you’re really going to love this one,” I drag dripping bangs off my sunburnt forehead, “despite the fact the water pollution my parents are studying is manmade, here I am swimming in a crystal clear lake that isn’t coated in Keep Out signs only because the Welsh trust people to be smart and respectful enough not to assume this lake is here to be their swimming pool. I know all these things, yet here I am.” I shout to the sky, “Here I freaking am!” I look back to the boy, who appears to have taken a couple steps back, his frown erased by an uneasy, possibly frightened smile. “And despite all this, my first thought when you told me I shouldn’t be swimming was that it must be bad for me, not the beautiful lake I’m polluting with my germs.”

He cocks his head. The sun makes his unruly hair shine gold. “You’ve got quite a tongue in your head.”
I give a dry smile. “That’s not how my teachers put it.”

“If you know it’s wrong, why are you doing it, um—?”

“Macey.”

He nods. “—Macey?”

“Because it’s the clearest lake I’ve ever seen.” The pebbly bottom is visible far beneath me. Shining fish, a thousand shades of gray, meander past like the black and white film equivalent of Rainbow Fish. My toenails are flashes of red against their kaleidoscope scales. I look back at the boy. “It’s as clear as the sky. I thought it might feel like flying. Or, you know, not flying, but the way little kids imagine flying in their dreams.” And when you can’t fly with Dumbo at Disney World, you’ve got to take your opportunities to act like a five-year-old where you find them.

After all, college begins at the end of August. Which means it’s almost time to stop believing in Neverland and wizards and talking lions. If I don’t fly now, I never will.

“Little kids?” the boy asks.

“Fine.” I force a melodramatic sigh and flip a lock of stringy wet hair over my shoulder. “Me.”
For the first time, he cracks a smile.

While this did not begin as my mission prerogative, my stomach flips at the sight. No way, angsty British dude actually knows how to bare his teeth in a non-threatening way!

“Whoa, look at you!” I point. “You’ve got quite a pair of lips in your head.”

My cheeks go hotter than the E.coli-laced sand I made the mistake of walking through during our first day in Wales, when Mom and Dad were taking samples and berating me for not bringing more intellectual books to read. (In my defense, I packed stuff like The Outsiders, not Twilight.) I resist the urge to dunk my head.

His cheeks are red too, although that could be from the sun.

I ask, “What’s your name anyway, Mister Wilderness Protector Guy?”

His grin widens. “David.”

“Ooh. Fancy.”

“Fancy?”

“All the Davids I know go by Dave.” My graduating class, alone, had three.

“Well, that is also an option.” He takes a step closer to the lake.

All three Daves are, as British Boy would likely put it, “arseholes.”

“No. I like David.” They made fun of Rachel and Becca’s post-graduation Disney World trip. “So,” I need something to say, “you’re Welsh, then?”

“Not the best at accents, are you?”

“Hey now.” My tone is very serious. “You got the easy end of the stick. I have about the most American accent you can find. You guys all sound the same to me.” And I’ve yet to be anywhere in the United Kingdom outside this part of Wales, anyway.

I wanted to see the other UK countries while we were over here—or at least hit the Doctor Who Experience tour in Cardiff—but Mom and Dad refused to spend money on anything they couldn’t directly correlate to water pollution. They did not accept my offer to dump a bucket of bleach down a toilet in Edinburgh.

He laughs. The sound is scratchy but warm. “I’m English. From Bath.”

Example A of a place which visiting would make this trip two hundred percent less terrible. Not Go to Disney World Instead less terrible. But less terrible, nonetheless.

“Ooh, fancy curvy buildings and Roman baths you can’t use to bathe.” I practically shoot upward at this. “No wonder you don’t want me in the water! You’re used to everything but your kitchen sink being off limits.”

He points an accusatory finger. “You forget the washroom sink and bathtub.”

“Thank God you didn’t say toilet.”

“No, no.” He shakes his head. “That was only once, when I was five.”

Well, there could be worse ways to spend an afternoon than listening to the sure to be embarrassing account of a stranger’s folly.

I grin and paddle closer. “Sounds like it’s Story Time.”

The boy rolls his eyes, but sits on a boulder at the edge of the water and leans towards me, so obviously he was hoping I’d ask. Quiet, like he’s afraid the park’s roaming wild sheep will hear, he says, “My mum had just given me a new action figure for Christmas. Captain America. And—”

“Of course a British kid had a Captain America action figure.” I snort. I want to go home. He glares. “Sorry. Continue.”

Anyway, I took the bleeding thing everywhere with me. To the market, to bed—”

“—to poop?”

“Do you want to hear the story or not, Miss Macey?” His eyes narrow even further. They’re as blue as the lake.

No. Snap out of it. They’re just regular, ordinary blue.

“Only because you called me ‘Miss.’” My chin dips. “Which actually seems extremely off, based on the fact I just said ‘poop.’ I hate to break it to you, but you’ve got terrible judgment, bud. First you’re basically in a domestic partnership with a Captain America action figure, now you think an American girl who talks about human feces in such crass terms is a ‘Miss.’ Goodness. What will the Brits think up next.”

Louder and more firmly, he says, “So I was playing with Captain America one day—”

I giggle. “You’re lucky no random hikers just came over one of the hills, or that could have sounded really wrong out of context.” His scowl could beat my father’s after my last time begging for freedom this summer, as we took our post-graduation family photos and my classmates laughed with their relatives all around us. My cheeks warm again. “Continue.”

“Anyway,” he digs the toe of his high top against the smaller boulder in front of his, “short story made long by the numerous interruptions: One day I indeed took the action figure to the loo and he indeed took a swim. So of course, Five Year Old David had to stick his whole bloody arm in the water to rescue Captain Steve Rogers and—”

I can’t help myself. I burst, “Number one or number two?”

David grimaces. “Number three.”

“What?”

“Both.” He laughs a sad little laugh and rolls his eyes. “What a pants idea, Five Year Old David, yeah? Of course, it was during that period when you don’t understand why it’s important to wash your hands, so I had the stuff smeared all up my pasty little arm for the next hour before my dad found me playing with Captain America in my room.”

Crap. Literally. I can’t help it: I laugh long. Hard. The birdsong picks up like they’re laughing with me.

“This story just took a turn for the I Can’t Believe You’re Critiquing Me Swimming in Snowdonia National Park When You Walked Around with Poop on Your Arm for an Hour.”

He lifts his barely there eyebrows. “In my defense, I’d had five years of practice at life. You’ve had how many. Fifteen, sixteen?”

I cough. “Eighteen.” That magic number that means I’m somehow supposed to be both an adult and still a child. Too old to read The Outsiders, but too young to stay home alone.

“Actually?” His eyebrows jump so they nearly meet his hairline. His Adam’s apple bobs.

Jerk. “Don’t look so surprised, Sherlock.” I splash water at him and actually get some on his sneaker. He jolts away. I stick out my tongue.

“I forgot how young Americans look.” He examines his shoe like I splashed some of my parents’ E.coli on it rather than clean water. “And act.”

“It’s something in our water.” I splash more at the English boy. “Young country, young, beautiful citizens.”

“You’re a comedian.”

“And you are?” I raise an eyebrow. “You know, age-wise?”

This time, the burning complexion spreads all the way to his ears. It makes freckles stand out on his nose like islands in a sea of lava. “Seventeen.”

“Ha! I’m older than you!” I’ve actually got something over the kid who grew up in Bath. Who cares if it’s just a few months’ worth of waking up to alarm clocks and shoveling Lucky Charms down my throat.

“Oh, shut it, Turncoat. I’ll be eighteen in August.”

I wiggle my eyebrows. My smirk is smug. “But it’s June.”

“You’re a git.” He shakes his head, laughing. “No wonder your parents don’t want you around.”

The birds are quiet. The sheep are quiet. The breeze stops whistling through the grass and over the mountains.

I press my lips together. I hate the burning pressure behind my eyes.

I didn’t do anything to make my parents think they needed to drag me to Wales, when they clearly don’t even have any time to spend with me here. I graduated on the honor roll; I got into a decent school. I spent my weekends reading instead of going to parties and the one time they had to yell at me this year, it was because Rachel, Becca, and I were singing along to loudly to Frozen.

But he’s right. My parents both don’t want me gone and no longer want to spend real time with me.

And it’s stupid, but the pressure grows until it forces the first hot, fat, tear from my eye.

David’s smile drops. “Hey, sorry, I didn’t mean it like that. I’m sorry.” He grabs a pebble from the shore and lobs it at the water. It skips once, twice. “I’m an idiot. Just some random bloke you just randomly met. I don’t understand the situation.”

“No, no. It’s fine.” I close my eyes and force my lips to tilt up. It’s funny how a simple smile can soften the pressure. “It’s just—my parents were supposed to come with me to Snowdonia today. But they found some interesting new strain of E.coli in the water, out there in Colwyn Bay—they’re obsessed with E.coli—so they gave me a pocketful of pounds and the car keys and, now, here I am. As usual. Alone.” I don’t need to be. But they made me be.

I shrug. My shoulders barely lift above the water. My legs are numb from treading.

“You’re not alone.” David’s voice dips up like he’s surprised I’d think that.

“Oh, right.” I laugh. “This annoying English guy is here.”

“Actually, I was referring to wild sheep and cows and that amoeba that’s going to eat your brain, but—”

“Stop.” I splash him and this time he doesn’t shift away. He does look at his navy blue shoes and take a deep breath though, shaking his head. His expression is solemn. Guilty. “Wait.” My eyes widen. My voice rises to a squeal. “Have there actually been amoeba in this water this entire time and you’ve just been holding back that information on the off chance you’ll get to watch brain goo drip out of my nose or something?”

I can’t even imagine what my parents would do to me if I got in real trouble, after they dragged me to Wales over being a generally good person. Like, is there a college in Antarctica they could transfer my brain-dead corpse to before freshman year begins?

And oh my gosh, I don’t want to die. I don’t want to die, I don’t want to die, I don’t want to—

He’s laughing so hard, he doubles over and almost slips off the boulder. This time, the chorus of birds laugh with him.

“That isn’t funny!” I send a wave so large at him, it coats not only his Converse, but his Bermudas in dark freckles.

“Miss Macey,” he gasps between laughs, “you are insane.”

I glare. “What, no ‘daft’ or ‘batty’ or ‘mad?’”

“You watched too much Harry Potter growing up.”

Doctor Who, actually.” I swim closer to his boulder, where the water is shallow enough I can dig my toes between the little smooth gray stones. Fish dart around my ankles. I cross my arms.

“Let me guess.” David leans towards me. The face of the guy who told me not to swim in the lake is maybe a foot from mine. He’s grinning, all crooked white teeth and thick blond eyelashes and his soccer jersey shifting in the wind like a cape or a sail. I am still in the lake. I no longer quite would rather be at Disney World. “A Matt Smith girl?”

“Ew. David Tennant all the way.” I take on a valley girl persona, twirling my hair. “You know that episode when he’s Barty Crouch Junior?”

Now I’ll call you daft.” He pulls himself to his feet. He towers over me. “Let’s take a walk.”

“Only if you answer two questions.” I let myself drift onto my back. “One.” I raise a finger towards the sky. “Are you a serial killer?”

“No.” He shrugs with one shoulder. “You’ll be my first victim.”

“Great. And two.” I spread my arms wide, like a little kid’s dream of flight. “A walk to where?”

If I were at Disney World, I could go to Splash Mountain or It’s A Small World or the Mad Hatter’s teacups. All magical in a preset, follow-the-path sort of way.

But maybe the difference between being a kid and an adult is not that I need to stop believing in magic, but that magic is allowed to have fewer rules now. Because David’s reply is, “Anywhere.” And he takes in the mountains and hills and wildflowers. A sheep baas somewhere in the distance. And we’re the only two people to ever exist. “You’re in the most beautiful place in the world. Let’s go for an adventure, Macey.”

I swim to the edge of the lake and drag myself out. I wring out my hair and slip on my high tops.

Disney World will still be around next year. I can go then. Or maybe I’ll go somewhere new.

In the meantime, this place is its own form of magic. With its whispering breeze and swooping hills and laughing birds, maybe it’s time I found new ways to fly.

“All right, David.”

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Thanks for reading and HAPPY HOLIDAYS!!*

~Julia

*I’ve clearly had a few too many cookies already.

NaNo Day 12: Interview with Hannah Rose

I don’t have much time to talk today, but I did want to mention: Remember how I was flipping out earlier this semester about trying to get my creative writing prof to write “excellent” on one of my short stories, instead of just “very good”? GUESS WHO FINALLY GOT AN EXCELLENT TODAY. And I have to believe a big part of it is because I finally let go of my insecurities about trying to live up to my past and how others want me to write and all that. When I wrote this short story, I did it purely for the sake of writing for myself and enjoying it, rather than trying to write a good story or get a certain grade or live up to a certain expectation. It was really liberating.

Today’s post is an interview about National Novel Writing Month.

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In order to give you a broader perspective on NaNoWriMo than you’d get from solely my experience, throughout the month of November I’m sharing interviews with various, totally awesome NaNo writers.

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Today’s interview comes from one of my best friends and vlogging partner, Hannah Rose! Hannah was one of the first people I met at U of M–we met in the Spanish class last year (you know, the really intense and scary and difficult one?)–and we’ve pretty much just been spending our time at college being weird and nerdy and writerly together ever since. You can read her blog here or watch our vlog here.

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Q: Is this your first year doing NaNoWriMo, or are you a veteran? What do you think of the event?

This is my very first ever year of doing NaNoWriMo! (Thanks Julia for semi-forcing me to do it.) The event is super awesome! I’m so excited but also strangely stressed. I feel like I’m under all of this pressure to write when really it isn’t any different than usual, just longer and faster. I think it is a really good experience, though, and the community is so great. I know four people just in my hall doing it, which is really cool.

Q: In one sentence, what is your novel about?

Finding my story.

Q: Plotter or pantser?

I like to take off my pants and pants it up. Just kidding. But I am definitely a pantser. However, I usually need to have at least a little plot in me or I get really, really blocked and end up staring at my Word document for hours, which is kind of sort of happening now.

Q: Do you have any particular process for writing? Do you have a certain location you like to write at, or a type of tea you need in order to brainstorm, or anything like that?

I usually like to come up with a phrase or something that I think is interesting. Then somehow that turns into an idea. One time I wrote a murder mystery just from the idea that I wanted to write about a barbed wire fence. It just sort of evolved. I would also call myself an insomnia writer because I definitely get a lot of my writing done in the middle of the night when I can’t sleep. I figure, if I’m going to be awake, I should probably make this time useful, ya know? I really like to listen to music while I write, too. There is one song that I know will get me thinking and typing whenever I hear it, so I usually start with that. After that it’s whatever I feel like at the time. I’m totally into chill indie folk stuff and film and television scores (they make me feel so epic!). Other than that I can pretty much write anywhere as long as I’m comfortable, so couches and blankets are pretty common in my writing area.

Q: Any writing advice?

Read a lot. Write a lot. That’s the only way to know what you like to do and figure out how to do it well. Also, find your support group. These people should help you feel amazing but also be super real with you when you need it. They should push you to try new things so you get better, without being mean. Who really wants that anyways? Finally, don’t get discouraged. Remember that if something isn’t working out, maybe right now just isn’t the right time to write that particular story. Good luck my fellow writer people!!!!

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A special thanks to Hannah for letting me interview her, and thanks to you for reading this post!

day 12
~Julia

Wordy Wednesday (“The City Will Wake”)

Today’s the last day of Fall Break for me, and as sad as I am to see it go (especially since most of my “break” has been spent working on homework, so I barely even got a chance to relax anyway), I’m also really excited about what’s coming up. Primarily next Tuesday and the Saturday afterward.

That’s right. Allegiant–the last book in Veronica Roth’s Divergent Trilogy–is coming out. And a group of us are driving to Chicago to attend V-Roth’s book signing. Which means I’m basically going to go into cardiac arrest, because HOLY CRAP VERONICA ROTH I LOVE HER.

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Unfortunately, before then, I do still have to go to lots of classes and do lots of homework (still working on those Spanish essay rewrites, for anyone keeping up with my Facebook page and/or Twitter). No idea how I’m supposed to focus on school with so many great books releasing this season (anywhere within hearing distance of me is a Spoiler Free Zone–I still haven’t gotten my hands on Once We Were, or House of Hades, ORRR The Dream Thieves), but I’m working on it.

In the meantime, this week’s Wordy Wednesday is a short story I wrote for creative writing class last semester, called “The City Will Wake.” Since I adore cities so much–especially New York–I wanted to try writing from the perspective of someone who doesn’t like them.

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            I wrap my jacket more firmly around myself and take a step into the park.

There is frost on the ground—a layer of prickly grey fur that coats the grass, which is brown and limp. To my right is a pond, its surface glossy and white. Warm yellow Christmas lights wink overhead, hung and forgotten between the maple branches crisscrossing the path. The sun should be rising by now, beyond the sky’s sheet of deadened clouds, but the park is dim and cool.

The heels of my boots click against the sidewalk. Although the city is awake beyond the trees, here the rumbling, screeching call of the taxis is a movie score it is easy to forget.

During the moment I walk to meet my friends, I am alone, like I almost always am in New York, surrounded by strangers.

My hands sweat in my pockets. I know it is better than exposing them to the dry air, but the stickiness makes them itch. My lips are chapped, my ears frozen. I wonder how many people have walked this path—how many people have felt their cheeks grow stiff with the blood and cold.

My eyes water as the wind breathes against them.

If this is spring, I cannot imagine the city coming alive because of it.

In only one week, I will get to go home, and there will be tulips and little green buds on all the trees. That is a true spring. But I cannot imagine making it a whole week longer surrounded by so much concrete. I will drown.

Felix and Caroline wait for me beside the carousel with their faces pink, eyes squinted against the wind. There are smiles tacked firmly to their lips. The grand, colorful carousel horses rattle on brass poles behind them while a woman in a dress that is much too thin for this weather passes, pushing a stroller. Felix extracts a gloved hand from his pocket and waves to me. “Good morning!” His voice is hoarse from the cold, but cheerful nonetheless.

“I think you and I have different definitions of good,” I say.

“Well ‘bad morning’ to you, then,” he says.

Caroline hands me a blue travel mug with steam rising from its lid and we begin our daily trek through the park. At first the skyscrapers are visible beyond the barren tree branches, but as we venture further down the path, the cement and brick slowly disappear behind layers of nature. It is leafless and dead nature, yes, but it is also still more alive than the buildings and the cars.

We pass the petting zoo and another pond that has a surface like frosted glass; we pass a play structure and businessmen in suits, and people who are our age, out walking their fluffy little dogs while talking on cell phones. Gradually the street lights flicker out overhead and the clouds move from silty grey to navy-tinged white. They are a second skin, hugging the sky, keeping the sun out. My toes are numb in my boots. My legs are stiff, nerves tingling, knees refusing to bend.

“I can’t wait until my internship is over.” I lift my coffee to my lips and suck in the bitter-sweet scent before taking a sip. Warmth spreads through my mouth, down my throat, comes to rest in my stomach. Caroline clucks her tongue.

“How in the world do you manage to hate New York City?”

“The same way you manage to love it, I guess,” I say. Felix laughs.

“You’ve been here for two months and you haven’t found a single thing you like?” Caroline asks. “Come on. You leave in a week. There must be something you’re excited to tell everyone back home about.”

“Yes. I’m excited to tell them I’m never going to leave there ever again.”

Caroline rolls her eyes and brushes her white-blond bangs off her forehead, but doesn’t retort. We’re nearing the edge of the park now, our office building coming into view, rising over the shorter buildings that surround it.

I take another sip of my coffee, feel its warmth in my fingers despite the wind biting against them, and turn back once to look at the brown skeletons that are the trees and the slippery yellowed mess that is the grass. Children interrupt my view as they run by, laughing and screaming in plaid skirts and ties. The clouds are heavy overhead. I wonder how different it would be to grow up here, rather than back home.

The rising sun breaks through the clouds overhead, and for a second the skyline visible beyond the leafless treetops turns from dull grey to a thousand shining colors. Beautiful. Like the concrete is not a cage to drown in, but a structure on which to stand.

Maybe in the summer it would look that way more often. Maybe like the trees, the city has not truly been dead all this winter as it has appeared to be—it has only been asleep. And spring will come eventually.

I tilt my face towards the warmth, towards the light, and there is the thought that I might miss this after all. Not the city as a whole, but moments like this. With the sunrise warm on my face and my toes numb in my boots. The air thin and dry and perhaps not full of life itself, but waiting for life to occur.

Felix asks, “Is that a smile I see on the Great Miss Farm Girl’s face?” He stops where he and Caroline have walked ahead until I catch up. His eyes are on the sunrise, too. He blows on his coffee, sending a gush of pearly white steam into the air. It seems to dance as it hovers then rises towards the clouds.

“No, of course not,” I say. “Why would I ever be smiling? That’s crazy.”

“Good, because otherwise we’d have to invite you back sometime.” He nudges me with his shoulder, and I allow myself half a grin. I hear Caroline’s steps as she walks to us, and then she stops on the other side of Felix. Together we watch what little of the sunrise is visible between the skyscrapers and clouds. It is orange and pink and yellow, melting the frost, melting the cold, bringing with it a breath of warm air that smells of soil and leaves and flowers.

Spring. Home. Soon.

“I’ll return someday,” I say.

“Yeah?” Caroline’s tone is not surprised. Felix throws his arms around the both of us and squeezes. Caroline laughs. It is easier to smile as the sunlight warms my cheeks.

“Yeah,” I say. “Maybe.”

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~Julia

Wordy Wednesday (“[Title Redacted]”)

So it’s the last week before spring break, and I’m going kind of nuts just wanting to be done with my classes already, especially since I have a midterm of sorts for my Spanish class tomorrow (ew). This story is another one I wrote for my creative writing class. It’s kind of super dark, so warning about that, but I couldn’t think of anything else to write about this week. I just can’t wait until I get to go home on Friday and spend my entire spring break working on writing-related stuff. 🙂

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[I’ve submitted this piece in a contest, so I had to take it down. Sorry! Thank you for the interest! ❤ ]

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~Julia

PS: Chapter Five of This Is a Book is live on Mel’s blog–check it out!