Your Perspective In Time and Fletcher Wings part 5: The Beginning of a Party

Your perspective in time is like a person standing on a road. The mountains (hard times) you see far ahead and behind you seem much smaller than the ones you have to get over now. The huge plains of waiting are almost completely hidden from view, no matter how long they take to cross when you are at them, and the small valleys of good times aren't seen again once you've left them, except one time.

That last time you glimpse them will be once you've climbed your last tall mountain and turn around at the peak to gaze serenely at all you've left behind. Then you will see those lush valleys, and all of the road-- the hard parts and the good. It will be the best perspective that you will get your whole life; because the last mountain is always the biggest, because all roads lead slowly upwards, if you were to level them out. And once you've gotten to that tallest peak, you will notice more about your life than ever before. You will see how sometimes, the hard struggle up the mountain actually was what led to the easy and restful walk down. You will smile to remember all those times that you conquered the mountains...
 
And then you will turn slowly, and begin to walk again, thinking with a bit of sadness, "It's all downhill from here."
 
And eventually you will get to the end of your road, and discover what you've been headed for your whole life, and I hope that you didn't take a wrong turn somewhere and not turn back. I hope that what you were headed for was what you were searching for. I know the way there, I think, but not many do. Even for me, it is so hard to read the sign posts pointing out the correct path.
 
Do you know what you are searching for? Home.
 
And if you do get there, it will still hurt like nothing you've ever felt before, just to step off the road after so much wandering. However, in the end, your heart wasn't made to travel. It was made to rest in the quiet of Home.

I hope I see you there.



 ......... That was something I wrote a day or two ago. I'll post more of Fletcher Wings also. Oh, and sorry that I didn't post. So much for 'tomorrow or next week!' (Haha)

            The next day Mr. Dwalvin woke me up. He said, in an annoyingly cheerful way, “Today is your welcome party. Be- or at least act- very thankful to have everyone visiting. It would be… unfortunate… if you made an enemy merely because you said the wrong thing in response to their head on a stick they somehow found appropriate to give you. Understand?” I groaned and sat up. I said, yawning, “Sure. Don’t argue. Look like you love everyone’s presents.” Mr. Dwalvin said, “Well, that’s the gist of it. Now come with me.” I complained sleepily, “I need some time to wake up!” He simply yanked the comfortable sheets and quilt off the bed. I was up like a spring, bolting down breakfast and pulling on a pair of leather trousers and a white linen shirt. Then I allowed Mr. Dwalvin to lead me away.

            We stopped at an impressive building and went inside, through the huge white marble columns. I felt hesitant to even walk up the steps, much less enter. The place was so stiff and official, and it reeked with politics and formal men who would frown at my messy hair and sleepy expression. It reminded me of the big buildings back on the other side of the Daun, except those were more modern.

            Despite the bad first impression, it didn’t seem so bad, once I got inside. The halls were brightly lit with candles and flowers. The floor was thick, soft, red carpet.

            Then I got to the party room.

            A huge chamber soared above me. To one side a stage was set, presumably for musicians. In the back of the room a chair sat, with a rug going up to it. The entire place was empty. Mr. Dwalvin said, “Hurry! We have not a moment to waste! Sit down in the chair and look smart while I get everything ready!” He hustled from the room. I looked around, then walked up to the chair and sat, feeling more than a bit ridiculous. I waited for about ten minutes, and then Mr. Dwalvin came back, leading an army of short men in black clothing and aprons. Several began sweeping, while others carried in a table with plates and food already set out on their shoulders, while at last several approached me. They led me away, into a small door, to a fairly large closet. It was full of ceremonial robes and suits. They told me to put one on, and then went back out the door. I looked through several ancient red robes, set aside several suits that looked too big around the waist for me, and even held up a blue robe. Every one didn’t fit, was too big, or too… interestingly colored. I finally came across a green outfit. It had black leather leggings that were clean and nice but not fanciful or with ruffles, a crisp light green tunic with a touch of black embroidery on the hem, and a swirling emerald green cloak. It all fit perfectly and was comfortable, feeling made for show but wearable in a fight. The cloak even had a slit down the back that would allow my wings through. I put up the hood and stepped back into the main room, closing the door behind me. I walked back to the chair, dodging the fairies, elves and dwarves that had filled the room in my absence. I sat down on the chair, stiffly, waiting to be told to do something. Then someone began playing a trumpet, and everyone in the room turned towards me.

A poem and Fletcher Wings part 4

This is a poem I wrote a while ago, inspired by the last poem in the book A Children's Garden of Verses. That last poem always makes me thoughtful and a little sad.

Childhood Home

Where is it,

That one may look,

And see what so long ago was mistook

For everyday life, just the same;

But really was much more than a game?

What now is treasures, away was took

By relentless time, such a crook

Of priceless memories.

All the petty worries,

Late night stories;

All of the past glories.

Where is it,

Where out the dusty back window,

You may spot the old willow,

Where the lilies grow,

Where pixies used to tip toe...

Where were you, fast asleep with soft grass as your pillow?


Well, anyway, I guess I'll post some more of Fletcher Wings.

            I sat miserably on a rug next to a dozen or so hyper little kids, who all were talking at once and drooling. The teacher thought I was a simpleton and treated me like a baby. We were learning stuff I already knew mostly, like counting and letters. I was surprised, because back with the Evenlys, we didn’t start learning that stuff until we were in second grade. Before then we learned discipline mostly. But every now and then, here, I would hear someone mention a battle I had never heard of, or a warrior, or the prince, who sounded much different from the Evenlys’. Despite that, I wasn’t having many ‘oh’ moments. Then came History.

            “Once upon a time the Odds, or Evenlys, as some call them, lived peacefully alongside the Cread.” I raised my hand and asked, “What does ‘Cread’ mean?” The teacher looked at me as though she thought I was joking and said, “That is short for creaduriaid, the Welsh word for creatures, meaning us.” I said, “Oh.” She continued, “At that time the Odds called themselves Humans. They knew about us, a little bit, but weren’t sure. Anyway, they found out. At first they just found out about several children, whose names were Arielle and Zachary. They, the children, saw that the Humans would eventually see that the Cread existed. So they thought it would be best to reveal the Cread peacefully, but, well, for now all you need to know is that something went wrong, and everything became what it is now. You will learn more when you are older and more … ready to hear.” Was it just me, or did her eyes rest on me when she said that? Did they think I would reveal them? I shifted my wings uncomfortably. The rest of the school day went by uneventfully.

            Later Mr. Dwalvin led me outside the school building and through a path up to a formidable looking gate. Inside there were trees and buildings. It was very beautiful because of stone gargoyles, fountains, and Spanish moss hanging down from the limbs of the trees. I had never seen so much plant life besides in the forest. Anyway, Mr. Dwalvin showed me past several large mansions, all of them fit for kings. I began to feel tired and asked at every building, “Is this it?” Every time he answered, “No. Yours is better.” Just when I decided to sleep on the ground and find my room later he said, “Here it is.” I looked up and saw that we were on a cliff. Perched precariously on the edge was a house, if you would call it that. It was a frame of dark wood, with white linen sheets instead of walls. Inside it was filled comfortably with several rooms. Inside was a hammock, several chests of who-knows-what, bottles of spices, maps, model ships, swords, clay sculptures, and millions of random artifacts. Its whole back wall that faced the cliff was gone; instead leaving a balcony with low railings that was entirely wood. The whole place was wonderful. I, after mumbling my thanks, sank into the hammock and was soon fast asleep, my wings around me.

This isn't my best writing. I've really gotten better since I wrote this, but I don't feel like changing much right now.

Anyway, I'll post more tomorrow, maybe, or sometime next week. Keep checking...

First Post in about One Year (my apologies)

Dear Readers,

Well, I haven't posted in a long time, almost a year.  Sorry, first I wanted some way to make sure people wouldn't copy something from this and post it somewhere as their own work, and then I just forgot about my blog....

Anyway, I haven't been working on my stories specifically as much anymore, although I feel I have improved drastically in my writing. Rather, I have spent more time on poems recently, due to my lack of discipline and consistency for longer pieces of work.

Simple, Only for a Minute

Sometimes the
Wise chose to be
Simple, only for a minute, and
Fools laugh at someone trying
To be only
a little girl,  speaks. Fools
Chop, chop, chop
Words of the wise
To little sounds,
Mincemeat.

I really enjoyed the abrupt feeling of it as I wrote this.... I normally write smoother poems, though.

Also, I've started writing essays. Here's one I think is cool:

Words are like the labels on points of A, B, C, and so on. They do not embody fully what they describe; but it is understood what they refer to.

The meanings of sentences are like lines connecting dots. In every sentence, one has to make assumptions and have background knowledge to comprehend what the meaning is. If I say line K’s endpoints are points A and B, and ask you to draw it on a grid, you can’t unless you already know where the points are.

            When one describes something, they are pouring out lines that all go through one point to try and get the listener to grasp this one infinitely definite point. None of the lines by themselves can clearly define it, but together, the listener might just be able to truly understand what the other is saying.

            Pictures are like planes. They hold many points and sometimes many lines, but if even one were changed, it wouldn’t be the same. Sometimes points and lines are better at describing something, because they can be specific. But sometimes pictures can be better, because instead of throwing out points and hoping the listener understands them separately, makes the correct assumptions to form them into lines, and then can see where they intersect, you can look at an image and be much more able to see if it embodies your meaning well enough. But the watcher might think you mean one part of it, when you want them to focus on another.

Sorry I'm posting so much... I just have done so much within the last year ;)

You watched for me

Wondering where I was

Did you ever regret sending me on?

I was off

Adventuring
While you waited for me to come home.

You left the window open for me

You let the cold air in
You stayed there

You left the window open

The light shone through the night…
The glimmers of your tears shone further.

You left the window up

You made sure I could come back
You put the kiss on my cheek
To call me home

You left the window open for me...

I won’t leave again.
You left the window open.

I wrote this because of the origional Peter Pan story. I really liked how it spoke of Mrs. Darling, who, when Wendy and her brothers left with Peter Pan, never closed the window to the nursery because Mrs. Darling was scared that Wendy would come home, but not be able to get in, and so turn around and go back to Neverland, and never see her mother again. (Wow, that's a long sentence).

-- Renee