[Continuing] Horror

I remember when Anna was younger. Maybe about four or five. And she tip-toed into my room in the middle of the night and she had managed to pull herself up into my bed. By the time I had rolled over and took notice of her, she was already fast asleep. Half of my being wanted to shake her, demand why she had done this, scold her for coming into my room without permission... Then I saw her face. Her small, doll-like face with streaked with tear trails. I sighed. She had had another nightmare. I was sure of it.

Anna claimed she could contact the spirit world. That supernatural creatures would speak to her. I entertained her for a few years but once I was older, I realized how ridiculous she was being. How naive. But there was one thing I couldn't explain: The nightmares. Anna had terrible, vivid nightmares that would wake everyone in the house with her screams. To hear her describe what she saw in her dreams would even send chills down my spine. There was no explanation for how well she could recall those horrifying images. Abuela said Anna had the "ojo tercer." The Third Eye.

"Anna," I said after a moment. "Do you remember the bedtime stories Poppa used to tell us to get us to go to bed when we were being too noisy?"

I heard her clothes shift in a nod.

"Do you remember how he told us we would be safer here than in England? How this was the land of our ancestors, even though we had never set foot on Spanish soil? How the blood, sweat and tears of early Spaniard explorers enriches this dirt? And, in every story, no native was killed in this forest?"

"I thought you didn't believe in those stories... You said I was--,"

"I know what I said, Anna. But now I'm saying that maybe you were right... Maybe there is more to this world than meets the eye. So how do we get out of here?"

I felt her throw her arms around me and squeeze me tightly. The sudden shock of feeling her body's weight against mine forced me to take a few steps back. I wrapped my arms around her and patted her on the back like Momma did. I couldn't believe it, but I was putting my trust in my younger sister. I, who should have protected her from any danger. I, who convinced her this was safe.

"First," she said with new-found excitement in her voice. "We need to contact the spirits of good. They'll know what to do."

So how do you like Southern?

In a few words, I don't. Not yet, at least.

I feel a little guilty for not posting in nearly two weeks. It's not like I haven't had anything to talk about. So much has been happening! Here's the shortcut version: My sister had graduated from college while I have just entered. I moved into a dorm room and spent hours with my roommate cleaning, disinfecting, and making it more "homey." (pictured should be on Facebook soon, I hope). There was... the block party. Oh gawd! The block party...

But, yeah, I have been... swamped. But everything's moving forward and I don't like it. At all. I feel like I'm being pulled away from my old life and thrust into a new one. But I liked the way things were! I really did. All of us together... not a care in the world. Now there's registrations, apartment shopping, dorm room troubles, scholarships, classes... it's all so different.

-sigh-

I need to write again. I could use the escape.

Searching for Inspiration

As I sit down to continue some old work or post a new one, I find myself... inspirationally-challenged. There are so many ideas in my head. It's nearly impossible to calm the storm of ideas long enough to see through the fog and write something coherent. But I know I must write. Writing is the very blood that courses through my veins. It is my strength. And my weakness. It's actually pretty funny; I can't imagine myself doing anything but writing. I'm not good at anything else. I have no marketable skills. I lack the patience to try to learn something else. It's just.. my passion. Writing.

I like to think of what first attracted me to writing. Why I love it so much. I think if I can figure out what first sparked my interests, I can be the lean mean writing machine I was in high school. And, I've found the first thing that attracted me to writing was not writing at all, strangely enough. It was reading. Reading what others had already written. How their worlds opened trails into these unseen worlds parallel to my own. And sometimes within our own worlds. And, then, I remember thinking to myself, Hey, I really enjoy this reading thing... And I was consumed. I was read anything I could get my hands on. Book stores became my favorite place to go and I began to examine the writing process in-depth to find out how these authors had done what they done. How a completely average mind could give life to not so average thoughts and ideas. What I discovered is that I, too, had one of those over-active, imaginative minds and I, too, could create. And I did.

Somewhere between the end of junior year and now, I've realized I've lost that initial drive. My chutzpah, if you will. There's always that voice inside me saying, "This isn't good enough." And I wish to silence it. But I can't. I have become what all writers fear: an editor.

.:~o*'Kaylyn'*o~:.