The Fall of Abby

This is a short story I wrote for Creative Writing..and I'm very proud of this one; I really like it. So tell me what you think!

The Fall of Abby

As the garage door hums open, I grab my blue twelve speed bike by the handle and lazily make my way to the driveway. The autumn air catches my breath as it pierces my lungs. Although the sun shines, I see the cloud of my breath before me. My hand-me-down bike leans up against me as I zip up my worn-down red flannel jacket. I swing my leg over my bike to have my muddied, once white tennis shoed foot land on the pedal and roll me forward. I sit up on the seat as I pull away from my modest, bluish gray house and towards the bumpy asphalt of the street.

I must admit, it is a beautiful day. The vibrant blue sky contrasts with the raging fires of the trees. Some trees are still igniting, others are burned down to the branches and limbs. I watch some of the crispy flames drift down lifelessly like ash, being controlled by the will of the wind. They fall on the neighbor’s yard, on the sidewalk and onto the street in front of me. Aah, that sound. I’ve always loved the crackle of crunching dried up leaves. The pitch street wears the confetti of red, orange and yellow flakes. The leaves are my favorite part of the fall; I shared that admiration with my little sister, Abby. Day by day we would watch the green leaves reluctantly surrender to their bright deaths, their burnouts. “Death never was so beautiful,” she told me. I turn out of the quiet neighborhood and head towards the back road.

As the cars pass me by, their spinning tires kick up the lively colors of the leaves. They dance before me, flitting side-to-side, twirling and freewheeling to the ground; so graceful, so gentle, so lovely…just like Abby. Abby was the best dancer in her ballet class. Being so light on her feet, she was always the star of the show. On days such as this, when she left her classes, she claimed that she had to dance with the leaves. She would spin and twirl, rise and fall…but she was wrong: the leaves danced with her. They dance because of her.

As I glance around, I admire each home I see; they all seem so cheerful, smiling with their curtained windows. Although their outsides turn brown as the flowers wilt and leaves blanket the yellowing grass, you can feel the life, warmth and love on the inside simply by looking at them. Windows never lie. The homes grow scarce the closer I get to the highway; everything is more open here, even the wind seems broader and colder. The homes really do make a difference; it must be the love inside them. It’s only after the homes disappear that I notice how cold I really am. I wipe my runny nose on my stained, scratchy sleeve only to feel the cold tip on my arm; I suppose my father’s old jacket isn’t as thick as it once was.

Short wooden fence posts along the countryside sag down into the long grass and weeds; they’re hardly noticeable. Little things like that make up a small town: rotting wood made useless by time and decay. The purpose they once served is unknown, but that fence must have had a reason for being, else it would never have been. I pass each stump and I ponder about how at one point they stood upright and supported anything or anyone. Now that the earth has consumed them, they’re nothing to fall back on. If it weren’t for the few remnants, one would get lost, at least I would be. If it weren’t for that small, insignificant fence, I wouldn’t know if I was on the right track in this wasteland.

The occasional passing cars chill me through and through. The soft whisper breathes in gusts, pushing me back and forth; I almost lose my balance. I clench the handlebars with white knuckles as I slam my right foot down on the rocks between the road and the weeds. I stare at my chalky hands as the whispering settles back down; they’re so pale, like Abby’s skin. We always called it her “fairer look”, for she hated resembling a ghost. She was wispy and airy, but she would deny it.

I see the fence spires ahead of me; gothic spears, knobbed, black and reaching into the sky. I look dead ahead and fly as the crow towards the darkened gate. The wind styles my already unkempt hair as it forces each straight up and to the left. My feet cease to pedal and glide onto the wide, earthy walkway, passing the small parking lot around me. I ease onto the breaks and put my feet down to steady myself as I peer through the bars. The array of tombstones varies in size and shape; whether round, square, flat, thick, fancy, plain, they all have the same function. I lean my bike up against the gate after I get off and find my way to the entrance. The wind seems gentler, almost inviting, as I take my first steps along the graveyard’s paved path.

I make my way to the further left, where the maple tree stands aglow. The whisper makes my jacket flutter, the telltale sign it’s a couple sizes too big. There’s a spot between two towering tombstones where a slab of granite lies on the ground. I kneel down and feel the name at the top, “Abigail Jean Roberts”, and read, “Our shining star—we still look up to you” below it. Tears fill my eyes as I trace the shooting stars on the sides. The stone’s touch is frigid, as were her hands in mine. I close my eyes tightly and cup my head in my hands, as if everything would be different when I opened them again. I still hide my tears from her every time I visit; she never liked to see anyone cry. Abby wanted to die happy; she could not see any of us cry, else she would cry too.

I feel a tickle on my fingers. I let my hands down to find a yellow leaf on her grave. I gently pick the leaf up by the stem and twirl it with my fingers. I reminisce of her golden curls, how they’d spin as she danced, and how heart wrenching it was to pick up the locks after they fell. As I dropped it to the ground I couldn’t help but think of the day she died: two years ago, today.

I held her frail body in my arms; she was tired of the hospital bed, and wanted to sit underneath the tree she saw every day. I held her close as she gazed up at the flames on the branches; the joy in her eyes was irreplaceable. I know because those bright blue eyes turned towards mine, and I saw their permanent sparkle. She then looked down at the gathering leaves, and I could have sworn she fell asleep. I brushed her frozen cheek to wake her, only to receive no response at all. I turned her towards me, and whispered her name…she did not stir. It was then I knew that Abby had died happy.

I stare at her grave, feeling empty like usual. The tears trickle down and splatter upon her name below. Even though I read her full name, all I see is “Abby-Jean”. I place the golden leaf upon one of the shooting stars, and then dry my leaking eyes with my sleeve. As I rise to my feet and put my numb hands in my grungy jean pockets, I stare down at her name and whisper back to the wind “Death never was so beautiful…death never was so beautiful.”

♫I feel pretty! Oh so pretty!♫

Background story: I was looking for a homecoming dress, and Momma Sippy and I stopped at Margene's Bridal. We found the perfect dress in a matter of ten minutes, and when we were making the first payment (you pay half, then half later) they asked me if I wanted to be a member of their Fashion Team, basically be a representative if their business and do some modeling. I wasn't too pumped about it, but Momma Sippy took a form for me and once as we got home started to take pictures of me to submit. Gotta love mothers...:]

So, we sent in the application, and about a month or so later, I got a call from the shop telling me that I was chosen. I thought "Yay...now what?" So, I go in, get my picture taken, I get sized, and I get referral cards to pass out to friends, and information for the fashion show I'd be in on March 2nd. So, I inform all my friends about it and I wait...and wait...and wait...and still the fashion show crept up on me before I knew it.

All the girls had to come two hours before the first show (the strappy show) to work on "the walk", then we saw our dresses. Six o'clock came around, and there was NOBODY for the strappy show; literally, there was really no one at the show...not even their parents or anything. Just the girls for the sleeved show (the one I was in, of course). It made me super nervous...

Then 7:30 rolled around, the time for the sleeved, and the place was PACKED!! They had hundreds of chairs set up, and there was about another hundred standing around all over in the back. I mean DANG!! The sleeved show was going to be pretty epic, but...their shipment of dresses that they were going to model off didn't come in until the day after (so today) so all the girls in the sleeved show only could model off one dress. But all in all...

I HAD SO MUCH FUN!!! I'M SO GLAD THAT MOMMA SIPPY MADE ME DO IT!! I WISH I COULD DO IT AGAIN!! (to say the least...I had a good time.) I thought I'd share some pictures with you...so I hope you enjoy!







The other pictures I have won't upload...or haven't been uploaded on the computer yet. Those are of my makeup, and my hair...and the only photo I had to show the laced up back was one of my friend and I being silly and sticking our bums at the camera...hehe-eh...Unfortunately that one didn't make it's way on here (I was going to put it up, but it wouldn't upload). But yeah! That's my dress...♫Spatula City, we sell spatulas...and that's all!♫

"How do you like them apples, Mr. Peterson?"

To start this off...let me set the mood: I'm an idiot. I'm taking AP Literature Analysis this year (AP basically means it's a college class I get college credits for...so it's a fancy schmancy way of saying "English") Well...I didn't do too hot first semester...like at all; I got a big fat D. Yeah...I cried over it a lot, because I felt like the hugest imbecile who ever walked this Earth. (I just haven't been putting enough effort into it.) So I am getting my rear in gear; it's my senior year...I cannot afford to throw away my GPA like that because college is just around the corner (AAAAAHHHH!!!) so I have to maintain an A this semester to get that D up...so I'm going to have to work ridiculously hard. It's doable...especially since I'll have to do it in the fall (Did I mention AAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHH?!?!? I'm freaking out about college!!!).

So, we had this unit where we researched a poet of our choice...I chose Christina Georgina Rossetti because my teacher told me she was similar to Emily Dickenson, whom I ADORE!! So, I came to found that I'm now head over heels with Christina Rossetti's work; Emily has definitely been replaced (LOOK HER UP!! SHE'S FANTASTIC!!) So, we researched, then took a small break from that, and analyzed poetry in class. Our teacher gave us poems like Ozymandias and Georgia Dusk that we would analyze and then discuss the next day. We were taught all about enjambents, caesuras, assonances...and how to recognize them; all that fun stuff...THEN!! Came our actual assignment.

We had to select a poem from our poet and analyze it, then share it with the class. I chose "A Bruised Reed He Shall Not Break" by Rossetti because I didn't quite understand it the first time I read through her most of her poetry (no exaggeration, I read her stuff for hours). Well, after hours upon hours...and a couple hours after that, I think I got the gist of it (of course with help of Momma Sippy to help sort out the information in my head). I was so proud of it, that I took pictures of it...seriously; you have no idea!! I feel so good about this, and I really hope that this catches my teacher's attention and shows her I'm not a D student; that I have potential to be smart...

I worked diligently and I'm happy to say it paid off...and I wanted to share my analysis with you!! So...here are the pictures I took:





After I posted, I realized that the pictures are extremely small, and I don't know how to make them bigger...I just urls so I can't really drag them by the corner and make them bigger...sorry about that..it's also on facebook if you want to check it out.

X Amount of Kisses

This is a short story I wrote for Creative Writing. Enjoy!

X Amount of Kisses

One: I take it all in. I savor every delight as it melts on my tongue.

Two: I nibble at the edges, and I roll it around in my mouth.

I open my eyes to peek at my phone, to see if I had missed your call. As I peel back the foil of another Hershey chocolate, I hold it up to my mouth, take a deep breath and place it perfectly passed my lips. If it had only been an hour, or even a day, I wouldn’t be sitting here, but it’s been a week…a week since you’ve called.

Four…five…

I called after the third day to see if you were okay…you told me you still needed time to think; that you just needed space. I bitterly gave you your wanted space as I cried and pondered ‘How much space can one have until they’re gone completely?’ I succumbed to desperation rapidly as I watched the minute hand pass onto every new hour. All the while here I have lingered, at the side of my phone, patiently anticipating the moment where the name I long to read finally appears on my Caller ID.

Eight…nine…ten…

I’m not even sure what happened between you and me; it was literally when you pick the petals of flowers: he loves me…he loves me not. I went out of town for a week and when I come back you won’t even look at me. You barely even acknowledge that I’m there by your side, as if I am merely your shadow. After questioning you of whether I had done or said something wrong, you gazed ahead and aloofly replied with ‘No. I gotta go, bye.’ I don’t think it would bother me as much if you’d just talk to me; if you’d open up and let me in that I could only understand how you feel. Clearly, that is not the case: I’m left in the dark…so I’m plummeting into the creamy kisses you gave me.

Twenty-two…twenty-three…

I didn’t intend on indulging in them so quickly; I was planning on saving them for a long time…I had no idea I would need them so soon. You told me just before I left as you handed me the bag, ‘These are for when you miss me. When you need me, just know that I’m only a kiss away’. My tear ducts flood at merely the memory; I shove my hand into the bag and take a fist full of your love. I press the side button on my phone to illuminate the screen; a tear plops onto it as the time sneers back at me. I frantically unwrap a few kisses and stuff them into my quivering mouth; I suck them down to slivers, only to swallow the lake of chocolate and feel it flood down my throat. I pick up my phone, close my eyes and hold it as close as I possibly can to my heart; if I can’t hold you, this is the next best thing. I take another kiss to chew as I lay my head down on the arm of my couch. I squeeze my eyelids together, in attempts to hold back the tears, but the salt puddles still find a way out.

Thirty eight…thirty nine…

I feel the vibrations and my heart goes wild; it throbs so violently it’s as if it’s trying to pound its way through my rib cage. It’s almost to the point of prophetic pain, but I know hearing your voice would be worth the agony. I quickly swallow your kisses as I open my phone to find it’s a text message. I can accept that…I’ll take anything I can get from you. I open the message only to find a forward from my best friend; one about sending it to twenty people who you’re lucky to have in your life. It’s not that I don’t appreciate the gesture; it’s just not from the one I was hoping for. I want to send it to you so badly, but I do not wish to provoke you further; all I want is to stop having to wait. I only want to hear from you.

Forty-six…forty-seven…

With text messages on my mind, I go to my messaging history and search for your name. It shouldn’t be too hard to find; we’d always stay up late in the night texting each other. I see the name I long for and my thumbs pounce for the ‘View’ button. As I read the heart-felt words you sent me once upon a time, my ambiguous feelings flutter down inside me as flakes of ash. They choke me just the same, one fleck at a time. Clearly, it is far too bittersweet for me, and yet it seems I cannot stop. I relish and abhor every word, and I feel my heart trying to discern whether to flutter or to crumble; it finally makes up its mind.

Fifty-three…Fifty four…

My tears sluggishly trickle their way across the bridge of my nose to soak the arm I’m resting on. I blink and wipe away the tears that blur my vision in order to look around, in attempts to distract myself, if only for a small while. I curl up my legs into a casual fetal position as I drag the kisses into my comfortable reach. As I bask in another one of your kisses, my large, teary eyes glance around until they rest upon a single vase. On top of my bookshelf, next to my key hook, there sits a clear, glass vase with a pear-shaped bottom and a long, skinny neck. Propped up inside are the red roses that you gave me on our anniversary; I dried them so they’d last forever. I crack a smile as I remember that night: a picnic in the park, a long walk along the bike trail and dancing underneath the stars as you sang in my ear. You pulled the dozen out of your large wicker basket and presented them to me so flawlessly. I don’t know how you do it, but every step, every breath and every word is perfect; you are perfect.

Sixty-one…sixty-two…sixty-three…

You have this way with words where every syllable refreshes me; it takes away the pain, and that is what I really need from you right now. All I want is to hear your voice. We have never gone this long without communication, let alone interaction. Whenever we had an argument, you were always the one to call the very day, before I went to bed, telling me you couldn’t go to sleep knowing that you’ve hurt me. Why aren’t you assuring me of it now? What has changed? What have I done?

Sixty-seven…sixty-eight…

That’s all I need, love: to hear the truth of how you feel. I really don’t think I’m demanding much of you at all…I sit up as I eye my phone sorely and squeeze the side button to light up the screen; all I see is the time and notice that my battery is running low. I begin to lose hope. I drop my phone at my feet and soulfully cradle my head in my hands. I drag my fingers down my cheeks, only to find all of my smeared mascara in the palm of hands. I rest my chin on the black mess of my right hand as I strum my left hand on my thigh, thinking ‘what am I going to do’.

Seventy-five…seventy-six…

I strip the last kiss, I hold it by its tip and kiss the cone tenderly, then slip it onto my tongue, to savor the sweetness slower than I ever had before. I poke the phone’s button with my big toe to see the time, close my eyes, reach for the bag which once contained your love, and crumple it in my hands. I lethargically arise from the cushions and laggardly make my way to the kitchen to dispose of my trash. As I drop the compacted plastic in the small bin, it hits me all at once.

I just wasted all of my kisses on you.

A Whale of a Tale.

As previously announced, I transferred schools for my senior year. It's still rather shaky...but I'll get the hang of it. Plus side to it all: LOTS OF POSTS!!

Anywho, for second period, I'm taking AP Literature Composition (flowery way of saying AP English 12) and we were instructed on the first day to write a personal essay introducing us and our background of English and what our plans for this year and college were. I wanted to get her attention, and I have a tendency to stick out when it comes to writing; I beat my own drum to say the least...and I wanted to do something different so I'd stick out instead of it sounding like everyone else's (not a word) and also maybe in impress her while I was at it.

I wanted to possibly have a theme of a well known novel and thought that would impress her, and for some odd reason, Moby Dick entered into my mind: "Call me Ishmael." I went off of it...and this is what came out of it. I left out of a word and I realized that AFTER I turned it in...so this is exactly what my teacher will be reading.

I find it rather nerve-wracking because this is basically her first impression of me and those are always the most important. I hope she likes me!!


Call me Ashley. Many years ago I thought I would venture out into the large watery part of the world; I came to the conclusion that I need to start the voyage of my life. My goals were to prepare to hunt and conquer the many whales I chose to pursue. They are not all the same size, but they are all fearsome beasts in which I have to prove myself with. This thus far is my journey…
Prior to my expedition, I did not indulge in much reading. No doubt it would have strengthened me some, but I have never been known to be found engrossed in the pages of a novel. Normally the only cause of me being immersed behind a cover was if an instructor put it in my face and graded me on it. Terrible, I know; there’s much regret hidden in that fact. I decided before I set sail to become more engaged into reading; better late than never, or so I’ve heard. Because of that, I have attempted to plunge into some books, the most recent being Wuthering Heights by Emily Brontë.I had great success until reality popped its ugly head in. I tend to struggle in keeping with them, but it all depends on the story line and diction.
When I’m not on the hunt, I’m fishing for the larger bait, in hopes it will aid my victory in what’s really important to me. Even though this game is smaller and simpler, it still helps me develop into that which I want to become. One fish is of music: I spend hours groping the keys of our piano, marveling at the ring of the chords as I try to incorporate the pedal and keep steady hands. I want to create music, even if not at a superb level; I want to play that it might increase my capability to others and myself. Another is simply developing independence; clearly, the reasoning is obvious of why I would care to mature in this way; it shall advance me in my whale battles. I would be pleased in catching the fish of work; not only in employment but in simple services. Being successful in being employed has not found me, but I have been able to help in small ways such as tending children and keeping house.
Now, concerning hunting, I’m currently at war with a raging beast of the chilling name High School; just the sound of it makes one’s stomach churn. I’ve stared into its beady eyes with my harpoon in hand and challenged it to the death; it possesses my diploma. In order to obtain it, I have to pass my grueling classes, and if I’m doing so already I might as well work doggedly rather than lackadaisically. I tread forward with the mindset of obtaining a superb GPA, abandoning procrastination and execute perfect attendance. Much sacrifice must be given, mainly the addiction referred to by my elders as “Myface”, but the harder one works, the greater the reward. I aspire for greatness and hope it transforms into reality.
After receiving my diploma, I hope to be prepared to take on the ultimate challenge of sailing on alone into the college world. For many years now, I have fixed myself on the idea of drifting back to my small home town and taking on the role of a Vandal; of majoring in English and Creative Writing in hopes of potentially becoming a High School English teacher with a small writing career on the side. I also care to pursue Music Theory to further satisfy my hunger of song. Other topics of interest include American Sign Language and Massage Therapy. I am still figuring the astuteness of working a year before converting to Vandalism; whether the interlude would hinder me. If I do choose to do so, I’d no doubt work two or so minimal wage jobs to help me get my feet on the ground.
As I reflect, it seems I shall spend many months on raging seas. My journey being difficult is an understatement, but the magnitude of my joy and success is no exaggeration. Although I shall obtain greatness, so shall many, and the shroud of the seas shall roll on as they have for the past five thousand years, but I can say I rode them and conquered my whales.
Citation due to references and paraphrasing of Moby Dick: "Moby Dick by Herman Melville. Search, Read, Study, Discuss." The Literature Network: Online Classic Literature, Poems, and Quotes. Essays & Summaries. 2001. Web. 28 Aug. 2010. .

♫A Whole New World!♫

I'm an Eagle entering the Lions' Den. I have been asked to fit in...and I'm just thinking "How?!? I look different, act different, eat different...how am I supposed to fool them?!?" It's my Senior year, and I have transferred High Schools: I. Am. Scared.

I prayed about this...and I didn't quite get an answer, so I took it as the Lord telling me 'whatever you choose will be just fine'. I've moved into a Stake where everyone goes to Borah, the transportation will be cheaper to school if I transfer, I'll make friends and still get to take the same classes...and I headed for THE JUNGLE.

While hyperventilating all through registration, the butterflies in my stomach made me nauseous and I had more on my mind than I did on my plate. I wanted to go hide in a corner and cry...I even started to tear up while standing in line for my picture.. Momma Sippy was there to tell me it was okay, but the words smelled like vinegar; they were so bitter because I did not feel "okay" at all.


The greatest sacrifice I had was that I had worked so hard to get into the top choir at Capital; I went to all my sectionals, took my music home and very often skipped eating lunch just to focus on my music. My hard work paid off...but I gave it up to start anew at Borah...hoping maybe I could get into their top choir. At registration, the choir director informed me ever so politely that I could not, because auditions were last school year, it's a tough group to get into and the only way I can get in is if someone leaves the choir...even then there's a huge long list of people (especially girls) who will be getting in if that happens. So my chances of being in CDVE (their top choir) are slim to none. How wonderful.

That night, I found out that a girl who's insanely talented when it comes to music who went to Capital transferred to Borah and got in. (I have had a long history of being extremely jealous of this young woman because she has an amazing voice, is always the teachers' favorite and gets ALL the solos, composes her own music, and already has scholarships to the top music schools in America...and no matter how hard I work, she always can do better and I always feel like second best.) I lost it...I started to cry (at around ll) and didn't stop until 2 in the morning when I finally fell asleep curled up in fetal position on my bed.

I keep reminding myself "Only after the trial of your faith do you receive a witness of your faith", "I can do all things through Christ, which strengthens me", "Trust in the Lord with all thine heart and lean not unto thine own understanding"...but I'm still scared and I feel so uneasy. I don't know if that's my nerves or the Lord telling me "This is NOT the right thing to do." All I feel is regret and worry...even though my own father told me that I should go to Borah!

I've heard that those who endure the greater trials receive the greater blessings...so I'm just putting all my faith in the Lord that he's there and he'll guide me along and that things will work out for me, that even though I'm a Capital Eagle, I'll be able to transition into the Borah Lion world...and pray that I will not be eaten alive.

I STINK!

So I went on a date to a Barber Shop Quartet concert one night with a friend from school. He's really into music as well...although I don't think he appreciates men who can sing well A Capella as much as I do.

Things were going very well and the performances were phenomenal...until I had to go and screw everything up...

My hands were really dry and I hate when my hands are dry--that and chapped lips, so I usually have lotion and chap stick. Any who, I reached inside my bag and grabbed my favorite lotion: Warm Vanilla Sugar. Knowing a little goes a long way, and that it's pretty strong, I put a little dab in my palm.


As soon as I start to lather the goodness into my skin...he starts coughing.

"Are you okay?"

"*cough* What are you wearing? *cough cough*"

"Uh...some lotion?"

His eyes get huge and he leans in like he as a severely important secret and he whispers to me "You stink."

At first I wanted to laugh at how ridiculous he looked...but then he coughed again, and I realized this is not the time nor place.

"You don't like Vanilla?"

"I hate Vanilla..."

I didn't know what to do so I flung my hands to the chairs on the other side of me and started to frantically wipe the scent off my hands. I'm pretty confident I apologized at least five times too. He laughed at me while coughing and told me I was fine...but I was too embarrassed to accept that and so I hid my hands inside my bag.

At the end, I apologized for being a terrible date by trying to kill him with the toxic fumes of my lotion; he told me it was okay and not to worry about it...but he hasn't asked me for another date since...

Oh well, he wasn't that cute...but who doesn't like Vanilla?! I mean honestly...that's bizarre.