Quote: Books

She said my life was boring, because I read books. What does she do? Watch television, go on the computer, gossip. Well, my life is interesting because when I read books, I got into other people’s lives and become their adventures. That’s why.

Quote: Don't Listen

The girls kept on demanding me to do something with my hair: straighten it, shorten it, dye it,  get bangs. So I came to school the next day with curly hair, something that my mother loves. But they didn’t even notice.

Quote: Worth

Children judge other children based on their ability to socialize, or appearance. There are other things to measure worth: intelligence, compassion, talent, strength.

Short Story: That's What Beautiful Is

I flipped through the magazine, and eye-shocking advertisements of models with intense makeup demanded me to look. Too fake, too phony. Do you really expect me to believe that that lipstick, that shampoo, that mascara, that dress will make me as gorgeous as the woman plus with my entire hair and face done with complete other products?

But one girl really caught my eye. She was a photo to commercialize Avon, but that wasn’t the point. She was my idea of beautiful. She had pale but smooth skin and messy dark blond hair with a careless fringe of this-way-and-that strands hanging in her eyes. And those eyes. They shimmered like a deep and haunting ocean and sparkled like the sea sparkles when the sun is directly ahead and makes it seem like there’s a thousand diamonds bobbing in and out of the waves. The irises glitter, making an impact on you. The faint eye shadow blends into the real blue fire. She had seemingly no makeup until you noticed the pale lipstick.

She has that ageless glamour: glanced at far away, she appears to be thirty or forty. Close, and she’s sixteen. Her personality seems shy and she doesn’t do much with her hair and makeup like she’s trying to draw no attention to herself. Like the woman doesn’t want anyone to notice her. Well, she’s got my attention. All that lipstick and blush of the other models is too loud, too artificial. Her looks are quiet and real. Like me.

Short Story: Neglected at Sea

This was written by my friend. Jadefireeyes

One day, a girl was desperate to swim in the ocean. She hadn't been there for weeks, and she felt she couldn't go another day without feeling the slap of the water on her skin. So she asked all her friends who lived nearby if they wanted to accompany her. To her great disappointment, they all said no. 

So that evening, close to the time when the lifeguards went home, she went with her father. They planned to go only for a short time; an hour or two at most. 

Her father brought along a chair, and she brought nothing but her flip-flops and towel. She went immediately to the waterline, relishing how the cold water tickled her toes. The sun cast a dim light and the waves were foamy and rough; just the way she liked it.

After tiptoeing further in, she plunged right into a large wave, not much bigger than herself. Her loose hair became instantly straight as she came up for air. For the next half hour or so, everything was peaceful: the daughter swam in and out of the waves, always making sure the strong current never pulled her far from her father's chair, and the father himself paced slowly along the shore or sat in the chair, daydreaming.
Suddenly, the girl felt a small pain in her left ear. However, her ear reached up to feel her earring hole, which had been occupied not a second earlier with a small silver loop. She checked her other one, but it was fine. 
She frantically swashed her hands back and forth through the water, hoping against all odds that she could find it. As suspected, the swift current drew it away quickly and quietly, and the girl was forced to go to land. She fondled her other earring, as she walked up carefully to her father. "Can you hold this for me?"
"Where is the other one?" the father was quick to reply as soon as he saw the item in question. 
"I lost it, in the water," she answered truthfully. She knew she could've hidden it, but she felt telling him was the better option.
"YOU WHAT?" he demanded loudly. He was clearly furious, and instantly started ranting to her about how she could just lose earrings again and again at the beach. Also how she didn't strip herself of all valuables before heading into the water. 
She departed to the sea as soon as he was done, but fluent to her father's nature she knew there would be a very stern lecture afterwards about this. In the meantime, she tried not to cry and dove in, expecting to be welcomed and comforted by her beloved ocean. Instead, she felt like lead, drifting to the bottom every time, her legs wiggling in protest as she pushed upwards. the seaweed that was so rare that lightly scratched her legs earlier now seemed to wrap around her in lengthening tendrils. 
Without even realizing it, the bound strips of seaweed were causing her to drift farther away from the shore. When she did realize it, it was when her feet could no longer touch the bottom. Instead of hiding her face from the shore so her father couldn't see her tears, she anxiuosly scanned the horizon 360` clockwise until she did see it. 
Her father was too obsessed about the accident that he didn't even notice until the lifeguards left the beach. He examined the water, but couldn't see any signs of his daughter. A panic seized his chest and he jogged along the shoreline.
The girl however, had grown tired and fell unconscious beneath the waves. She was swiftly brought back to reality with a sharp pat on the back and found that she had grown a tail and surrounded by a coven of other mermaids.

Short Story: Paris Underworld

This was inspired by a National Geographic article. Jadefireeyes

Stories above, perhaps there’s an elegant café, lapping in the view of the Eiffel Tower. At night, the city will descend into a thousand gleaming lights, a thousand beautiful buildings, well-renowned monuments and opera houses. For now it’s a noon on a typical Saturday, and some shops and bakeries will be closed. A few pedestrians and traffic will be milling around the quiet streets and avenues, and the waiters in the extravagant restaurants will be serving lunch.

I am wandering in darkness, endless tunnels illuminated by my one lamp. My muddy boots splash in moist puddles covering the ground, wiping my hand in disgust on my already filthy overalls. My breath gathers in clouds, surrounding the water droplets on the ceiling, while staring at the endless chaos of skulls, femurs, tibias and other assorted bones. The cool air is tainted with the odors of mold and damp earth.

I am in the Paris underground, the chain of canals, deserted wine cellars, crypts, reservoirs and bank vaults. Remains of the dead greet me as I wind around the section of the catacomb, each hosting an individual story to tell, yet long passed into oblivion through the centuries.

It all began as quarries dug underground for its vast deposits of limestone and other bedrock, chiseled by the Romans in the 1^st century B.C. who once inhabited France. After they were exhausted they were deserted, and some were filled with rubble. Overfilled cemeteries with bones were first poured into the quarries in 1786. It was the start of the French catacombs.

The Paris dwellers didn’t pay much attention to the unstable foundation they were tottering on, until the first collapstion of 1774. Many such cave-ins were to follow, including one in which the earth swallowed an entire neighborhood. This prompted King Louis XVI to create a department to monitor them, and still exists today.

On my way to the crypts I passed many murals created by modern artists. Some wine cellars have been transformed into nightclubs and bachelor parties. They are all Catatphiles, people who love the Paris underworld. Whether they come to paint, party, sight-see, hold dates, or simply enjoy the thrill of exploring uncharted territory, they all share one thing in common: they come here to have freedom from the laws of the surface. The most daring stay underground for days on end.

Patrols of geologists venture through the labyrinth as well, to make sure the quarries are strong enough, so they do not crumble. There are also Cataflies, police who chase cataphiles. Most entrances and tunnels are illegal to access.

I take off my mud stained helmet, and survey the tomb. Just in the distance I hear the echoes of more visitors pouring in. I’d better get going.

There’s a whole world down in the twisting labyrinth of Paris. How to get there? Go to the nearest manhole.

Short Story: Garden Dreams

 It was early, and I pulled my covers over again, but Jane wouldn’t let me sleep.

    

“Come on, I need to show you something.”

 I followed my little sister, because I knew I would never hear the end of it.

We went outside to our little garden near the house. Today it was very pretty: wildflowers splashed  the lawn  like drops  of  fire,  and  butterflies  hovered lazily like autumn  leaves. Jane obviously didn’t think so; her face was a scowl, and she narrowed her eyes. “I wish we could get rid of it! Or at least make it better.”

“Why wouldn’t you want something so nice?” I asked, shocked.

“Because just think of it,” Jane answered dreamily. “Just think.

“Instead of this old, ugly stone path, we can have a road surrounded with bright azaleas.  And  bordering  that,”  she  recited,  “we can have endless miles of exotic blossoms!”

“Nice vocabulary,” I laughed, “but I think this patch is good enough. I think you’ve been reading too many books with fancy gardens.”

“Have not! Anyway, instead of this dirty fence, we can have a proper hill laced with Old England Roses. Plus, we can have elegant benches, you know, real polished wood, right under it in the shade. And there should be shrubs all around them,” she added.

“I can’t decide what type of garden it should be, Japanese, Chinese or some other. Japanese ones are really just evergreens, so you don’t know time is passing by, but Chinese ones have to be two-thirds up a hill, some other hills in the distance, a smaller pool going into a larger lake…”

“Sounds very specific. But I really think you should be happy with this one.”

“Uh, no…it also has to have a giant maze, I don’t know what kind of hedge, well maybe yew, and there has to be a fountain and statue made of marble at the middle. And I want there to be a lot of streams with bridges crossing over them, and wind chimes everywhere you look. Oh yeah, and birdhouses too. What kind of a garden doesn’t have birds?

“There should also be trees, but they can’t cover up the flowers of course. I like willows, because their branches drape, but mostly anything else would be okay. Oh, and I want pines too, because they never turn brown and they smell nice. Wait, I forgot about having cherry and apple blossoms!

“The garden should be really, really big and I would like there to be hills, but a flat one is fine. The birds need to be colorful, and so should the butterflies. You don’t want any boring ones, do you? And there need to be a lot of trails made of crunchy pebbles, and ponds with pretty fish inside.

“There need to be a ton of roses, and tulips I guess- although I like daisies too, and since it’s my garden, I’ll add them. And I’ll make open fields so horses can run around, so I can learn to ride them-”

“June, why don’t you like our own garden, instead of making up fancy ones? You know you’ll probably never have enough money to make one so extravagant.”

Her face flushed as she answered, “Because the girls down the street laugh at it, and ask why I don’t have a pool there instead. I wanted to make it so good, I would show them gardens are better than pools.”

I wanted to laugh as I answered, “But it’s because gardens are better than pools is why they don’t like it. They just don’t want to admit it and be wrong.”

“Really?” Her voice was small when she said that.

“Really,” I replied with all the truth in my heart.

“Oh, okay, I guess it’s good for now, but I need to start planning, you know; and then I want....”