Sunday, 20 November 2011

Favourite Moment

This is my favourite moment in the Anne of Green Gables series, or one of them.

"Is it Rilla-my-Rilla?" he asking, meaningly.

Emotion shook Rilla from head to foot. Joy -- happiness -- sorrow -- fear -- every passion that had wrung her heart in those four long years seemed to surge up in her soul for a moment as the deeps of being were stirred. She tried to speak; at first her voice would not come. Then --

"Yeth," said Rilla.

From Rilla of Ingleside.
By one of the best female authors ever.

The final of Photoframes and another short story...

Friday, 18 November 2011

So you've never heard of the glad game?

Have you ever read Pollyanna?
No? I recommend you do so.

So you've never heard of the glad game?
No? I recommend you listen.

Do you live in comfort, in some shape or form? Are you lucky? Do people love you?
Whether you live in a half a million dollar mansion, or a beahc shack, or even the street. Chances are someone loves you, and you are lucky and loved in some way.
I can not speak for the world, but for Australia. We are so lucky as Australians Too much I see ungrateful people and others who come to our land from places where half their families were slaughtered. People think only of what they want, not what they have. Some have nothing.
This is why we all must play, in some form, the glad game. Just to be glad, to be grateful.

So you've never heard of the glad game?
No? I recommend you listen.

Thursday, 17 November 2011

The Lanten

Two people met beneath a paper lantern. A man and a woman, they have not met before.

The lantern signals guidance, beauty, beginning and lights the way on new and old journeys.

The paper lantern dies as the sun rises, and the two people leave again. Together, on one journey, a new journey.

And for others, the lantern will be lit again as the sun falls. They, in their lost ways, may meet. Converse or just gaze, but move forward. Together, on one journey, a new journey.

And for another pair, the lantern will be lit again.

Wednesday, 16 November 2011

Storm of Night

Outside, the rain falls,
It pitters and it patters.
The sky of day was filled with gloom,
But at night it never matters.

Thunder claps, like encore applause,
It echoes, makes me hollow.
Yet I am safe within my bed,
Within the sheets I wallow.

Lightning streaks across the sky,
It's pretty, white and scary.
It causes me to snuggle deeper,
And think of rain soaked fairy.

The tin amps the water's splash,
As drops make their ground.
The storm feels quite personal,
Yet it repeats all around.

A cool breeze blows, my shoulders' cold,
I really should shut the window.
But I'm too comfy in my single bed,
And I don't quite mind the airflow.

Perhaps by morning, the sun will shine,
Or rain will fall so softly.
The storm of night, provoking thoughts,
Replace by sunrise hotly.

Tuesday, 15 November 2011

Yesterday's shoes

I didn't like yesterday. It was icky, boring, yucky, it sucked. My classes were horrible, it rained, my friends had better things to do and I forgot my lunch. But that wasn't the worst of it. My shoes, the shoes who and stood by me through all my misfortunes were splattered by puddles.
And they weren't waterproof.
Yes, mum tried to save them. And yes, I did my best to dry them when it first happened. But some shoes don't always have good days and my shoes' days were over.
I went shopping that afternoon.
Today I wore new shoes. Shoes which were soft tan with little bows and a baby heel which wasn't arkward.
Today I liked. Today was peaceful, exciting, fantastic. I was dilligent in classes, the sun shined and a breeze blew ever so lightly. My friends and I shared our lunches together. I had a caesar salad.
But that wasn't the most enlighting moment of the day. Everyone loved my shoes, the shoes.
And I realized it wasn't a bad day, but bad shoes which had plagued me. My old shoes hadn't stood by me in all my misfortunes. They'd caused them.
Oh well, that was yesterday, and yesterday's shoes.

Monday, 14 November 2011

Three Thoughts

The idea of men being the solely sexist gender ridicules the idea of sexism altogehter.

Perhaps it is the supply of toerable women which has dwindled. Not toletable men.

If men were perfect women wouldn't feel as special.

Sunday, 13 November 2011

I can sign!!!

This is something I made, not the symbols themselves, but the overall graphic. Perhaps it's not worth a blog, but...

Yes, tomorrow the final chapter of Into the photoframes will be blooged. I'll have some other stuff from some friends after that and a trio of stories. There's only one week left so get blogging!!!

Saturday, 12 November 2011

Into the photoframes 4/5

Elsie hung in my room for four days before I spoke with her again.
It was during another one of Mother's invigorating high teas that we next met.
Our company today was Mrs. Hopschick, Mrs. Trent and Darling Harbor, the latest fiancee of Mr. Gore Harbor.
Allow me to explain to you the extra dullness of this event. Mrs. Hopschick was a woman who fussed over fuss, Mrs. Trent a woman who did not care for children who misbehaved or fussed, and dear Darling, a young shrimp of a girl who did not like children...full stop.
This could also be the reason behind her three month marriage to Mr. Harbor.
Still, knowing I owed my mother for allowing me the portrait of Elsie I behaved as best I could during the time.
“Patience,” Said Mrs. Hopschick, smacking her full red lips after enjoying seventeen tiny iced cakes. “I do believe you've changed your picture on the mantle.”
My mother's gaze met mine and held it for a mild moment. It was needless to say she blamed me for this incident
“Yes,” she admitted crisply. “Carla's photograph was getting quite tiresome, but as this tea had to be moved forward three days,” another pointed glare was aimed in my direction. “I did not have the chance to have another taken yet. So I had the florist put together this bunch. It's pleasant,” She tossed a shrewd eye over the floral arrangement which now sat in Elsie's old place. It didn't seem like she thought them pleasant.
“I've never particularly enjoyed bringing weeds into my house,” Mrs. Trent declared. “I don't see the entertainment in keeping the things in stagnant water only to rot.”
The women were insufferable. I sat back in my chair and sighed quietly.
Darling startled furiously with a yelp.
“Child, please do not fidget so, you'll break the chair.”
My gaze moved to the mantle, to the place where Elsie used to sit. If only Elsie were there, if only...
And then I saw her.
Half hidden in the photo of my parents and I, Elsie winked at me.
I was careful not to move, but smiled as best I could in her direction.
She raised one eye brow, as if asking my permission to disrupt the terribly formal tea. I winked as best I could.
“Patience, your daughter's eye is twitching,” twittered Darling frightfully. “You don't suppose she's rabid or something.”
“I should think not,” my mother answered smoothly. “Carla is well behaved, if forgetful. And no child of mine would ever been around an wild beast. I do not keep such animals.”
At that point Elsie began to snort, just like a pig, and jiggle objects in the portrait to sound like an animal crashing around.
“I say, what was that?” Darling cried, leaping to her feet.
My mother's face warmed slightly.
“No animals?” Mrs. Trent said in a condescending tone. “We shall see.”
Both she and Darling moved to peer from the lace covered windows.
“Perhaps it is just that local rag Thomas passing by,” Mrs. Hopschick said, settling comfortably into her arm chair and finishing off the last few cakes. “It's rats you have to worry about. Especially in the walls. In a place as old as this rats in the walls would be horrendous.”
Darling relaxed slightly, tottering back to her seat.
“How ca you tell if there's rats?” She asked unsteadily.
“Scrambles,” Mrs. Hopschick answered. “Scratchings and what in the walls. Sounds like a wet dog in a thunder storm.”
A knocking sound started followed by several scratches on wood and wall paper. Darling's eyes looked ready to fall out.
“I must go, I must!” She chirped in a high tone. “No, no. Can't stay here. Not with, with rats!” She grabbed her purse and hurried out of the parlor.
Mrs. Hopschick looked ready to throw up, a strange look for her. Her eyes were apologetic as she struggled to her feet. My mother stood too.
“It's not. It's not what you think, honest-”
“There, there, Patience,” She said. “But I would have it checked! Rats! And think of the dark places they could hide! The linen, the pantry!” With that final remark she waddled from the room, had on mouth and eyes on the cakes.
Now only Mrs. Trent, my mother and I remained.
“Well,” said Mrs. Trent, a bemused expression on her face. “I will have to inform the members of your next high tea, for health regulations of course,” A wicked smile plagued her thin red-brown lips. “Although it may be better inviting fringe dwellers, such as the Adams, rats would be common place for such company.”
Mrs. Trent swept from the room, her eyes on my mother's steaming, helpless face. She ran, actually ran, to the window and watched the last of her company leave.
“She can't-oh but she will!” she whispered to herself. “What will happen now? Oh I'll be the laughing stock of the town!” She left the room, without a glance in my direction.
I rose from my seat and walked to the mantle where the family smiled from their portrait Elsie had already left, but the photograph of my father handed out a small note. I took it gingerly from his hand, which, like Elsie, moved as though in water, through the glass.
The writing was small, childish. It took a minute to read.
I hope it was actually fun this time
-L. C.

Friday, 11 November 2011

If you leave me...

Photoframes has been pushed back again but this piece is nice.

If you leave me, can you promise,
To treat me like a lady?
I know you've gone, the thought has died,
Our future looks real shady.

If you leave me, will you promise,
Never to cause me pain?
Perhaps you'll never walk with me,
But don't let the tension sustain.

If you leave me, will you promise,
To keep old promises you've made?
If you leave me, will you promise,
To let my memory fade?

Thursday, 10 November 2011

Bell Birds

this is not my own work, but a peice by Hery Kendall. However it is one of my favourite pieces of poetry and it is very fitting for 21 Days. And yes, Into the photoframes returns tomorrow.

By channels of coolness the echoes are calling,
And down the dim gorges I hear the creek falling:
It lives in the mountain where moss and the sedges
Touch with their beauty the banks and the ledges.
Through breaks of the cedar and sycamore bowers
Struggles the light that is love to the flowers;
And, softer than slumber, and sweeter than singing,
The notes of the bell-birds are running and ringing.

The silver-voiced bell birds, the darlings of daytime!
They sing in September their songs of the May-time;
When shadows wax strong, and the thunder bolts hurtle,
They hide with their fear in the leaves of the myrtle;
When rain and the sunbeams shine mingled together,
They start up like fairies that follow fair weather;
And straightway the hues of their feathers unfolden
Are the green and the purple, the blue and the golden.

October, the maiden of bright yellow tresses,
Loiters for love in these cool wildernesses;
Loiters, knee-deep, in the grasses, to listen,
Where dripping rocks gleam and the leafy pools glisten:
Then is the time when the water-moons splendid
Break with their gold, and are scattered or blended
Over the creeks, till the woodlands have warning
Of songs of the bell-bird and wings of the Morning.

Welcome as waters unkissed by the summers
Are the voices of bell-birds to the thirsty far-comers.
When fiery December sets foot in the forest,
And the need of the wayfarer presses the sorest,
Pent in the ridges for ever and ever
The bell-birds direct him to spring and to river,
With ring and with ripple, like runnels who torrents
Are toned by the pebbles and the leaves in the currents.

Often I sit, looking back to a childhood,
Mixt with the sights and the sounds of the wildwood,
Longing for power and the sweetness to fashion,
Lyrics with beats like the heart-beats of Passion; -
Songs interwoven of lights and of laughters
Borrowed from bell-birds in far forest-rafters;
So I might keep in the city and alleys
The beauty and strength of the deep mountain valleys:
Charming to slumber the pain of my losses
With glimpses of creeks and a vision of mosses.

If this isn't good literature then the world is insane.

Wednesday, 9 November 2011

Into the photoframes 3/5

The next afternoon I went to my mother's greenhouse where I knew she would be watering her petunias. Mother loved petunias, and entered them in many shows, always winning. That was the reason Madame Finch never came to the high teas anymore, she hated losing.
“Mother,” I asked timidly, knocking on the greenhouse door. “I wanted to ask you about the portrait of me in the first parlor.”
“That old thing,” she asked, continuing to spray the flowers with water. “It's awfully drab don't you think? It's about time we had a nicer family portrait replace it.”
I bit my lip, glad Elsie could not hear what my mother, our mother was saying.
“It's a picture of me, Mother.”
“Oh yes, I know darling but things have changed a great deal. Wouldn't it be nice to have a smart family portrait take its place?”
My spirits perked up.
“Well that's what I've come to tell you, Mother. Can I hang the current portrait in my room?”
“I suppose you can but I don't know if you may,” she said idly.
“May I?”
“Of course. My next high tea isn't until next week, plenty of time for a portrait. You will be taking part, won't you, Carla?”
I sighed. The high teas were boring even with Elsie there. Without her they would be deadening.
“I wouldn't miss it for the world, Mother,” I said, making my way to the door.
I hurried as quickly as I could without running to the parlor where Elsie smiled from her frame. Her eyes followed my entrance into the room and she moved from her frozen position once she saw it was me.
“You're moving to my room!” I told her gleefully.
She cried and clapped her hands together..
“Oh this is perfect! Wonderful! Quick, quick! Move me now,” she urged.
I removed the frame awkwardly, it was a little big. The other photos nodded at Elsie as she left.
I carried Elsie up to my room and hung her on the wall. Not too near the window and warm sun, but not too close to the door either.
“I'm afraid there is very little company here,” I told her. “I'm mostly the only person you'll see.”
Elsie laughed.
“That doesn't bother me. Not in the slightest. I'll be able to leave my frame more often.”
With that final statement Elsie turned her back to me and flounced out of the side of the photo.
I stared at the spot where Elsie had resided, only moments ago ad then laughed, long and loud.
One of the upstairs maids past by and poked her head in.
“What is the joke, Mam?”
“Nothing, Belle, nothing,” I sighed happily.
I had a friend, a friend who would always be there, no matter what. Thomas was a good friend, but Mother never approved, so our time together was short. But Elsie would stay, she wouldn't leave. And we would always get along. Because she was just like me.

This will be continued...again.

Tuesday, 8 November 2011

Into the photoframes 2/5

"But..." I spluttered, staring stupidly at the small girl in the photo frame who was still holding out her hand expectantly. "But you're a photo!"
The little Carla huffed and with drew her hand. The glass where it had touched rippled slightly, like a tidal ring.
"Huh!" She said indignantly, crossing her arms. "You're one of them are you? Just because I'm a photo doesn't mean I'm not real!"
"I never..." I began, but dropped my argument almost immediately. It was no use arguing with her. "I'm sorry. This is a first for me."
"No it isn't," continued the girl in a bratty tone. "You've seen me move before, during those awful tea parties."
"My mother's high teas?"
She nodded.
"Our mother," she corrected. "She's just as much mine as she is yours. I'm a younger version of you, you know. Just stuck behind glass," she sighed and gazed at the borders of her cage broodingly.
I watched her for a moment, unsure how to react to this younger version of me.
"Would you still like that tissue?" I asked, running across the room to retrieve the prim little box which stood there.
I watched as she took a tissue. Her arm reached forward again, not pausing when it met the glass and a hand, quite life size, stuck out of the frame. Ripples appeared around her wrist and died away before reaching the borders. She pulled a tissue from the box and with drew within the frame again, the tissue become a photo, the glass left rippling from her touch.
Despite of, or maybe because of my awe, the girl regarded me with big brown eyes.
"Thank you."
"Little Carla," I started.
"Please! Don't call me that!" She interrupted. "It's so downgrading. I sound like a junior or a minion. And I," she met my gaze with a challenge. "Am neither."
"What am I to call you then?" I asked.
She hesitated.
"They call me Elsie in the land," she said. "It's like 'l' and 'c' but spelt proper, like a real name."
"Well, Elsie," I said, taking care to pronounce her name. Goodness knew what she'd do if I'd said it wrong. "I have a question, well several actually. Who, or what, are the other people? And what is 'the land'?"
"And they say children ask questions," she laughed. "Teenagers are jut as bad. The maids are the other people. The one's you're preparing for right now. They see me, see me move, and just scrub my glass extra hard as if it would fix things! Ooh!" She bunched up her tiny pink fists. "If I could touch them! The things I would do!"
"Yes, yes, yes," I said hurriedly. The maids would be hear soon, and I didn't want to be see taking to myself, in a picture. "What is 'the land'?"
"The place, where all painting and photos can go," Elsie said. "It's beautiful...and exciting. I should take you sometime! Let's go! Let's go now!"
I took a step away from the frame, wary of Elsie and her fists. Who knew how strong those little hands were, and if I'd ever leave the photo. Mother wouldn't be too happy with her daughter appearing twice in the one photo.
"Maybe later, Elsie," I said. "I can hear the maids."
And sure enough the sound of two women gossiping was growing louder. "Will I see you again?"
"You'll see me, but will you see the real me?" She taunted. "Can you convince your mother to move me? To your bedroom or someplace nice? It's awfully drab in here."
"I'll do my best," I promised. I inched towards the door.
"Wait!" Elsie called. "We'll need to arrange a time! How about four o'clock in the afternoon. In two days time?"
"You got it," I told her.
She smiled, and then became a frozen photo again. I slipped out the main door just as the maids entered from the back.

To be continued...

Monday, 7 November 2011

Into the photoframes

I had always admired the photo frame on my mother's mantle. Our house was large, and old, and in the front parlour, on the mantle peice were three framed photographs. One was of my parents, another of the family and one, in the middle, of me.
At least they said it was me. It didn't look like me. The girl in the photo was younger, much younger, but that wasn't what made her different. Her brown eyes sparkled, even in the photo frame, and her dimples cheeks looked barely frozen.
There was other strange moments with the photo of a younger me too. Sometimes, when Mother held a high tea in the parlour, I'd sit in, dressed to the nines as expected. The teas were awfully dull though, many minutes would pass simply in silence as ladies sipped at sweet black tea and ate miniscule, sugar frosted cakes.
It was in these stifling moments strange things would occur. As I'd sit, my tea cold and appitite dead, I'd heave my chest to sigh-but oh! I'd been beaten to it! My gaze would rush to the mantle, always the source of the sighs, where little Carla would be. Her shoulders would shrug, her big eyes blink, and the frozen smiling face return once more.
No one else ever heard the sighs. Or saw the shrugs. Or saw the blinks. It reoccured several times till my superego passed it off as an illusion of boredom.
After one particulary dull afternoon tea (Lady Morton complained of uneven batter in the cakes) Mother instructed me to change my dress and dust the parlour lightly please, before the afternoon maids attend to it themselves.
I took to my duty gloomily, annoyed at the waste of a brilliant afternoon. I might have been out with Thomas, my friend next door, picking apples from the old orchard.
My duster tickled over the glass of the photos, removing every suspicious speck of dust. Bored, I thought to myself. Bored, bored, bored.
Then there was an intake of breath, and a sneeze! I jumped, and my sudden movement startled the little Carla in the middle photoframe. Her right arm wiped at her nose, while the left stuck out in front, eyes on me.
"May I have a tissue please?"

To be continued...

Sunday, 6 November 2011

I had a friend named Chris

When I was twelve I had a friend called Chris.
Chris was nice, possibly one of the nicest people I have ever met. Forever the gentleman, and not just for flirting's sake. Chris was a great guy.
We spent most of the time together: hanging out, swimming, acting out stories around a small camp fire. We'd go to town, play hide and seek and listen to music which can only be described as original skater-pop.
But then Chris left, just left, and I was on my own. I had no friend next door, all my friends were a fair walk away. I was no longer the girl next door, nor he the boy.
These days all of my friends live an hour or more away, and that's by car, goodness know how long by walk.
I have our memories, our magic, the fun, the music and the ideas we fabricated on our days together.
Chris will always be one of my closest friends, even to this day. He's the only boy I've ever felt completely comfortable around.
I often wonder where you are Chris, and if we'll ever see each other again. I'll always remember you, and I hope you're thinking the same thing.

21 Days of Blogging November 2011

Hi everyone, you;re probably wondering "What's with all the posts?"
Well every November I'm doing an online festival called '21 Days of Blogging'.
I'm getting a friend to do a logo and I've got a lot of people ready to help me out.
So it should be sweet.
Got something to say? Well email me or post a comment so we can get in touch! This festival is for writers everywhere to get together for a 'blog-fest'.
Yes, I know I missed a blog yesterday but I will make up for it tomorrow with three. I was so tired I fell asleep with my laptop, I'd been busy all day.
Keep in Touch

Friday, 4 November 2011

On a red carpet of poppies

I stepped through the hidden glen like an angel, my feet did not dare disturb the fleshy florals through which I trod. On a red carpet of poppies, but the plants were much more lushious. Sunlight lit the coven like a spot light on stage, turning the tendril grasses translucent and light. White flowers peppered the edges, jasmine could be scented but not seen. It was scacred ground. It could turn you away if it wanted to, you'd feel out of place and abandoned, as though you were intruding on a funeral or left out of some great joke. But I felt at home, no, not home, part of it, of the glen.
I felt as though I could swing through the trees without effort, despite my lowly strength. I could fly, without wings and swim though the tropic riverlets as a mermaid..
This was a place of magic but I could not stay. To stay too long wold spoil the deity, the euthoric feeling that was attached to the place. I would leave now, perhaps forever. But I would visit often. In my dreams and memories the little meadow, a gazebo of entwined vine and branches. It would always be deliccously beautiful, I glutton enough to drink it in. It would not tire, it would remain as so.
Then perhaps, just perhaps I would return, an old and thought aged woman, my body bowed to time. I would stand at the edge of the gazebo; and walk on a red carpet of poppies. Perhaps my hair, no longer the water gold of yonder, would be silve; long and light. As a spot light of butter sunshine lit before me translucent grass. And this I would say, on a red carpet of poppies in a world only known to few,
'Hello dear friend; I am home, lets make but one of two.'
-By Madelyn. C. Lardner

Thursday, 3 November 2011

A little bit from Jane Ormes

This is a little piece of poetry I found a few months ago. Don't think of it as sad, think of it as sweet...
Do not stand at my grave and weep;
I am not there. I do not sleep.
I am a thousand winds that blow,
I am the diamond glints on snow...
I am the sunlight on ripened grain,
I am the gentle autumn rain...
When you awaken in the morning hush,
I am the swift uplifting rush
Of quiet birds in circled flight,
I am the soft stars that shine at night.
Do not stand at my grave and cry;
I am not there, I did not die.
-Jane Ormes

Wednesday, 2 November 2011

I've never been in love, but this must be how it feels

I love the way you hug me,
And the way you make me smile.
I love the way my heart aches,
When you're gone a little while.
Your eyes are always sparkling,
You say it's 'cause of me.
They never said it felt this way,
The feeling that I'm free.
I never wanted to be bound,
To a person or someone.
I didn't want to be 'their girl',
But now my heart is won.

I'm sorry if it's silly,
If you think I sound plain sad.
I'm sorry for the lonely,
Who can never know what we had.

This is what my friends say,
When they've 'met their one true love'.
This repeats quite often,
Like the heartbeat of a dove.
'I'll never know!' they declare,
Only lovers feel this way!
I don't love a person,
But I feel love everyday.
I love my music, my writing,
Acting on screen and on stage.
And the thing about my love,
It's like turning a page.
My passions won't back stab me,
Or leave me for the fray,
It's like a brand new dawn,
It's brand new everyday.

By Madelyn. C. Lardner, in love with her art

Tuesday, 1 November 2011

I'm just saying...

I'm just saying you know, just saying.

I Wonder...

The human is one of the greatest scientific wonders. I wonder about all it's idiocy all the time. Sometimes it has good emotions and sometimes bad, both are essential for an artist. But some emotions leave me wondering. Why, why do I even bother?
Of course, you're human, I almost forgot. You can't always be in control, you sometimes humiliate yourself the wonder why you were so stupid. I wonder too. I wonder why you just do things and why you have no answer to your wondering.
But of course, you're human, rules by the emotions! How's that going? Work ethic alright? Are you wondering why you are reading this? Wondering why I told you via YouTube to google this? I don't.
But of course, you're human! It's the human thing to do! Just like swearing, drinking, embarrassment and wondering. You like entertainment, like leadership. But is this entertainment? Art is subjective, but isn't that subjective too?
Hello, I'm a human. I've just done something incredibly embarrassment and am vehemently taking it out on you.