Monday, October 31, 2011
What about you? What do you guys do for it?
Well. . .That's the theme for this week. Halloween.
Write about what you did, or have done. It doesn't have to be something you did this year; if you have this awesome story of something that happened a while ago, feel free to use that, too. Also--we are going to have to make a rule that no real (last) names or locations be used.
We are a Christian blog. We will not post ANY stories that we feel go against our beliefs.
Wednesday, October 26, 2011
There is a world beyond the sun. It is inhabited by creations. Everything ever created or made up lives their life in this land. Only a few can see the creations, hovering around their creators until their stories are done and they can travel the road of the sunset. Of these, even fewer can travel the road themselves. One boy, Dylan, was the only one who could travel the sacred road, but he grew up and stopped pretending. One like Dylan is only born every 50 years and the world felt the loss of Dyan sharply, although they did not know it. The next one to be born was a girl corrupted by pride and power. She enslaved the world behind the sun for years. Back on earth, creativity had stopped. Until one dark night when the long awaited child was born...
Now its your turn!
Monday, October 24, 2011
I was sitting on a chair in my apartment that first October out on my own. It still didn't feel like home, even though I had lived there for two months. I had all of my things that had decorated my room at my mom's house placed around the apartment. The two porcelain Chinamen served as bookends on the bookcase. My guitar poster graced the wall by the window. And the ancient rug that I had inherited from my great aunt lay on the wooden floor. I even used the same laundry detergent as my mom had.
I knew that I missed my mom and Karen, my sister, but this place was supposed to be home! Nothing felt familiar. The chair creaked as I got up out of it. I walked to the window and looked out over the park. Three, old maple trees were turning crimson on the tips of the branches. I sighed. It must be apple season, I thought vaguely. Apple season. I tilted my head in thought. That was what I was missing – the feel of the smooth apple skins in my hands when peeling them, the smell of applesauce bubbling on the stove, and the sight of three or four golden apple pies cooling on the rack. I had always loved apple season. Mom, Karen, and I would gather in our large, farm-style kitchen – bushels upon bushels of granny smiths, macintosh, and galas filling all available floor space. We would spend a week peeling, slicing, cooking, and baking them. We would can apple pie filling and applesauce, bake apple pies, and dry apple slices.
I sighed again, at the memory of those happy, autumn afternoons after school, and decided that that was what I needed to do. I needed to buy some apples. I grabbed my purse and counted the money inside. Three dollars and fifty-four cents. Most of my money I had used up to furnish my apartment. I figured I would need sixty dollars or so to by a couple bushels of apples. Sixty dollars. Not much, in the scheme of things, but in my limited budget, it could mean forgoing a couple meals. I looked around my scanty apartment and decided – I needed apples.
I was inspired! I tore across the room and into my bedroom. Rifling through my box of old stuff, I found nothing worth sixty bucks. I strode back to the living room/dining room and surveyed it with a determined eye. And then, I saw it – the dilapidated, old lamp sitting on the end table (or, it at least looked old at that moment, in light of the apples that were to come). I snatched up the ancient relic, marched outside, and walked the three blocks to the pawn shop.
After that, I went to the farmers' market and bought two bushels of apples. I walked contentedly back to my apartment, opened the door, and – gazing lovingly down at the two bushel baskets straining the sinews in my arms – exclaimed, “I'm home!”
Wednesday, October 19, 2011
Tell me what you think!~Elizabeth
Monday, October 17, 2011
Apples. Yes, apples.
And speaking of apples, I need help--it turns out that the ones I bought this morning were the one type that my family doesn't like. So. . . I now have a ton of apples that no one's (except me!) going to eat. So. . . What should I do with them? Are there any good recipes you have(or interesting ideas?)???
And, if there are enough options, I will make one of the suggested things and post the results on Wednesday. Just try to keep it simple, though--remember, I am in no way whatsoever a good cook. :)
Saturday, October 15, 2011
She fingered the platinum-blond hair of the old barbie doll. It had been hacked short in third grade. One of its arms had been torn loose by Scruffy, her dog. The sundress that it wore was pale yellow, faded by the sunlight of too many backyard picnics.
Kelly smiled sadly. So many memories – so bittersweet. Something in her yearned for those warm days filled with lemonade and friends. She wanted to reach back to the times of giggling with her sister as their Barbies dressed in ballgowns and danced with Ken. It had been so sweet, so innocent, so unlike Kelly's life now. She started up from the edge of her bed when she heard the front door bang. Jim was home, and Kelly had forgotten to start supper.
Kelly tried to slip into the kitchen so that maybe, just maybe, he might not notice that she had been daydreaming and forgotten her duty again. She winced when she brushed her bruised shoulder against the white wall. Jim did not like it when she forgot things. She hoped he might not be too upset today.
“There you are,” Jim's gruff voice startled her. “Where have you been, woman? You know, I work hard all day and I come home to what? No hello, no supper...”
“I'm sorry. Sorry,” She turned to look timidly up at her husband. His eyes looked glazed from alcohol. It was a look so familiar those days.
“Well, maybe sorry isn't good enough. 'Sorry, sorry, I'll do better.' But it never happens, woman. You never love me like you should,” He took a step toward her with a accusing finger. “Sorry doesn't cut it. For two years – two long years – I have tried to teach you how to behave. Everything I ask is so simple. Every other wife in America could do the simple things I ask.” He slapped her across the face. Kelly stumbled to the side.
“Please, Jim, I'll -”
“Don't whimper at me,” He roared.
Before she knew it, she was on the ground. Pain exploded through her. She crumbled to the linoleum floor with her eyes squeezed shut to try to bottle up the pain.
“Maybe that will teach you,” Jim muttered as he stumbled out of the house. Kelly tried to stand. She lurched toward the phone table and cracked her arm against it. A scream escaped her trembling lips as the pain ricocheted through her bones. Kelly glanced at the front door. She hoped he wouldn't come back for awhile. Picking up the phone and balancing it on her shoulder with her ear pressed to the receiver, she dialed seven numbers. Seven numbers she had wanted to press for two years.
“Mom? Could you... could you please come and take me to the hospital? I think I broke my arm. Maybe you could bring over a box for some of my stuff. I don't think I'll be coming back any time soon. Please hurry.” Kelly hung up the phone and sank to the floor, clutching her bad arm.
Kelly lay recuperating in the bedroom of her childhood. Pink ponies danced across the wallpaper. Her mom had let her pick out the pattern when Kelly was seven. She had loved pink then. Come to think of it, she realized she still did. She looked down at the cast on her arm. It wasn't signed by anyone. All her friends she had left behind to have Jim. He hadn't allowed much time for friendships. She sighed heavily.
Something in a box by the bed caught Kelly's eye. She got up from the bed, bent down, and picked it up. A smile flitted across her face. It was the barbie doll with platinum-blond hair. The doll with a broken arm, yet it smiled bravely all the same. Kelly sat down on the bed and held the Barbie for a long time. Then slowly, with a brave smile, she picked up the phone on the nightstand to call up her best friend.
Friday, October 14, 2011
So. . .First off, Wayne Thomas Batson, Enter the Door Within!
Secondly. . . An awesome devotional blog, Forever His Servant.
And, last but not least . . . Pen in my Hand!
These blogs are great, check them out!!!!
*Due to this, the winning TOTW story will be posted tomorrow*
Wednesday, October 12, 2011
The ones that make me smile and laugh,
Of all of these memories, I cannot keep track,
Without my faithful KODAK
Ok, so it doesn't technically rhyme. . .Oh well.
I love pictures. . .if you haven't already guessed. :)
Monday, October 10, 2011
I absolutely love doing it, and I feel like when I combine myself with the character, there's this harmony that never before existed. I LOVE that feeling.
Acting is a chance to act like someone else, feel like someone else. To BE someone else. Being up on stage. . .It feels amazing. As if I'm living a dream. As if the knights, beasts, and maidens from my dreams have become reality. What about you? How do you feel on stage? Excited? Terrified? All of the above?
Wednesday, October 5, 2011
Tuesday, October 4, 2011
Monday, October 3, 2011
It's seriously an amazing movie, probably the best one by them yet. It makes you cry in some places, yet laughing in others.
Sherwood Pictures seems to get more and more professional by the movie--the acting in this one was twice as good as in all the other movies. It is SERIOUSLY worth checking out!!!!!!~Elizabeth
Saturday, October 1, 2011
She tried not to tremble like a leaf in the wind. He had not shouted yet, had not raised his gravelly voice a decibel, though it was as menacing as a lion's roar. The words were coated in poison. She knew it. And she knew that she must either give in or be crushed yet again.
“It is all we ask, girl. This country is so big – has so many opportunities for a beautiful girl like you, yet you choose to rot away in prison. We do not want this. You must want this, though, for we have given you chance after chance to leave. We tire of asking, of giving the same offer that is denied time and time again,” He paused to let it sink in. “So I offer you one more time. Denounce this Jesus, and we promise to let you go. If not – you die.” Until now, she had stared straight ahead at the steel-gray buttons on the man's uniform. Now she raised them to look squarely into the man's icy, blue eyes. She willed her voice not to shake.
“I will never deny my Savior. Do to me what you will, I will always love Jesus.”
“Well, if you want to die – it's your choice,” He said.
“I gladly die for the glory of the One Who died for my eternal life.” The man turned, and barked something to a guard at the cell door, who let the man out and slammed the door behind him.
The girl sank to the dirt of her cell. She repeated the words of a Psalm she remembered the old minister having said. “Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil: for thou art with me; thy rod and thy staff they comfort me...” She knelt quietly moving her lips in prayer for an hour.
The sudden noise of the door to her cell being opened caused her to stir. A guard entered and grabbed her roughly by her arm. He jerked her out of her cell, down a long, dim corridor, and out into the dark night. A line of prisoners stood in front of a pit. Soldiers who had rifles pointed at them stood beyond it. Some of the prisoners wept openly. They screamed for mercy. Others stood in stoic silence without a trace of fear in their eyes. The girl took her place beside a young child who looked up at her and smiled. His eyes shone with peace. A peace that she hoped she mirrored as perfectly.
The captain gave the signal and the rifles' report echoed through the dusty hills. The girl felt a piercing pain as she collapsed into the pit. The next thing she knew were the arms of Jesus.