My Little Sister's Saturday

Coast clear.
Roger that.
Do you see the target?
Right on the counter.
Sneak forward.
Nervous glances.
Footsteps!
Hurry! Open the lid.
See the prize.
Round and delicious.
Grab a few.
Make your escape.
Whew, that was close.
Mom is in the kitchen.
Her voice makes you jump.
Guilty, you listen.
Her interrogation consists of one question.
"Who stole the cookies from the cookie jar?"

The Dreams and Dissatisfactions of Inanimate Objects #002 The Pencil and Pen

       I am The Pencil. I am used through out the world. I love my job. I help you create anything from math equations to history essays to artistic sketches. You will usually see me in my yellow uniform, but lately I have been expanding my wardrobe. No matter what color or shape I take, though, you will recognize me by the eraser on my head. My eraser is what sets me apart from other writing utensils. I know that sometimes, I will make mistakes. I realize I don't always place the right stroke in the right place- that is what my eraser is for. You can use me to clean up your mess of graphite. I love helping you start again. That is something my brother, the pen, does not understand. He could learn a thing or two from me.
       Pen is my name and writing is my game.  My particular pride is writing the address on your envelopes. Only I can do that. I am very important. I am used to sign legal documents of all kind. My ancestor was used to write and sign The Declaration of Independence. Now tell me, could any other writing utensil top that? I help you write the things that really matter, the ones you know will be permanent. I don't squeak when you use me and I don't need to be sharpened like my brother, The Pencil. He is always getting worn down. He could learn a thing or two from me.

Are Faeries Real?

I do believe in Faeries.

       Well, have I ever seen one?

No. 

       Do I have any proof that they are real?

Um... no.

       Then how can I say I believe in them?

Just because I haven't seen them doesn't mean they can't exist.

       So I can't prove Faeries are real?

No more than I can disprove it!

This is something I have struggled with for a long time. I confided in my friend my worries, and she gave me the solution. I am a Faery Agnostic- we just can't know.

Although, I think it's best to default to belief. It's much more fun.

The Queen of the Dancing Leaves

Her dark hair is crowned with amber leaves
Her dress is red velvet
She teaches the             leaves to dance
                          falling
 And turns them the color of the sunset
She jumps off the b r a n c h and
                                                       t
                                                         w
                                                             i
                                                         r
                                                       l
                                                     s
                                                         her way down.
Her dress spreads out- glorious!
Her graceful ways bring the fall, the autumn
The leaves follow her steps, victorious
You see them complete the dance she leads
But her Solo is seen only by the moon
The finale she dances after the last leaf
                                                               falls
To a mysticandmelencholy tune.
No one has beheld her beauty in those last steps
No one has seen that annual ballet.
She is the Queen of the Dancing Leaves
The most angelic of all the Fey.

The Dreams and Dissatisfactions of Inanimate Objects #001 The Answering Machine

       All day long, all I do is take your calls. Nobody ever asks me if I like my job. Nobody cares if the Answering Machine likes remembering all your appointment reminders and Aunt Sally calling for the fifth time to ask if Steve got the job.  Nobody cares about the Answering Machine.
       You lazy people! When you are sitting around at dinner and the phone rings, you won't walk ten feet to pick it up. You all say, "Oh, just let the Answering Machine get it." What if it was Micheal calling to ask your daughter on a date? Or Tori is waiting to tell you her father has died? All they hear are those four droning rings. And none of them are happy or grateful when they here my voice, asking them to leave a message. They always say, "Oh, no. It's the Answering Machine." As if it's a bad thing!
       No one calls to see how I am doing. Nobody wants to know if the Answering Machine is sick or happy. No one thinks, "Gee, I wonder if Answering Machine is having a good day." You associate me with disappointment because you never hear the people you were calling for when I answer. When they were too lazy to pick up the phone, I was there for you. I answered your call. I listened to you anxiously asking your friend to call you back. You never even said hello to me!
       But no matter how I feel, I keep going. As long as there are telephones, I will be. This Answering Machine will go on in the face of trials and adversity. When all else fails, I A.M.

My Imagination

       I have been diagnosed with  O. A. I. D. -- Over Active Imagination Disorder.  Many people get this between the ages of four and ten, but normally grow out of it by the time they turn thirteen. For me, it is a chronic illness. My doctor has tried everything to keep the symptoms down, but none of his attempts have worked, so he gave up. For those of you who are not familiar with this disorder, the symptoms include hallucinations, talking to yourself, gazing off into the distance, and an addiction to books. Some people deal with O. A. I. D. by avoiding the things that cause the symptoms to flare. I don't. The things that usually activate my symptoms are the dark, being home alone, climbing trees, movie sound tracks, reading, acting, and generally anything to do with words.  Now you can see why I will never be cured from this. I can't stop doing any of the above. It's just a part of me. Besides, I like talking to myself. And climbing trees. But I don't like the dark. Oh, well.
       Most people who cannot be cured of O. A. I. D. don't want to be cured. I would fall into that category. Some people wake up one day and realize they've been suffering from this disorder all their life and decide to be rid of it forever. The thing is that they don't know they haven't been suffering from anything, but rather enjoying what fewer and fewer people appreciate. They like it until they find out that the men and women who don't have O. A. I. D. labeled them as "crazy" or "weird". Then there are those of us who find out and don't care.
       Now if you'll excuse me, I have to battle the dragons in my back yard.

My Sword

I have a sword that hangs next to my bed. I bought it off the internet. I have to write something about it, because it is a very important thing  in my life. If you asked me the "If your house was on fire..." question, then my sword would be pretty high on the list of things I would want to save (assuming all living things are already out of the house). This sword is not sharp, but it is heavy. It is all black. This sword hangs next to my on my wall when I go to bed. But sometimes, when I see those yellow eyes peeking out of the closet or that tail sticking out from under my bed,  reach over and grab my sword. And I stalk the house. Maybe it is one o clock in the morning and I think some growl or hoot has woken me up. I creep down the stairs with my sword, holding it aloft. I hear foot steps. My heart is trying is beat its way out of my chest. I can't breathe. What was that noise? My knuckles turn white from gripping the hilt. I peer into the darkness and slowly back up, placing one socked foot behind the next. Something hits me from behind and I stifle a cry of alarm. It's my sister, armed with her daggers (the same sort as my sword). She couldn't sleep either. Glad for the company, we both creep around the house one last time and are satisfied with what we find- no monsters, orcs, Sith lords, or otherwise found anywhere. After saying good morning- it's now one-twenty a. m.- we curl up under the covers of our beds. I fall asleep to the image of my sword, hanging ready on the wall and that is enough. My Imagination slips from Reality and back into my backpack for safe keeping. For now, I am safe.

A Very Short Poem

All king's horses and all the king's men,
Couldn't face Goliath, but then
There was David.

My Name

Readers,
       Some of you may be wondering what E. J. stands for. Those of you who aren't wondering, already know and should not reveal this. Perhaps you have a theory. Allow me to confuse you a bit. My name has nothing to do with T. S. Elliot, although he is an amazing poet and if you have never heard of him I want you to stop reading this right now and go read The Hollow Men and Old Possum's Book of Practical Cats (then you can wonder at how such different poems were written by the same amazing poet). I actually had never heard of him when I created my writer's identity. But discovering this poet is another story entirely and I don't wish to confuse you that much. Now you must be thinking what could E. J. possibly stand for. Elizabeth Jane? Eleanor Jasmine? Esther Joy? None of these are correct. Perhaps, then, it stands for something completely ridiculous such as Elephant Jelly-jars, Economical Jealousy, or Earwax Jolt. No, all wrong. Then again, it could be made-up words: Eelbob Jali or Epinop Janex or Earpol Jorlz. Are you kidding? That's ridiculous! You must be wondering what amazingly profound secret E. J. is. Well, it's not an amazing or profound secret. Good thing, too, because I'm terrible at keeping secrets.
       Your blogger,
Emerson Jay Elliot
Oops! See? I'm terrible at keeping a secret.

Eulogy To a Dear and Beloved Friend Who Will Forever Remain In My Heart But Has Consequently Passed On

P. J. was a faithful companion, who's life and death reminds us all how time waits for nothing and technology will press on. P. J.'s birth date is unknown, but I have known him a good nine years. He died August 2 of this year. Doctors are still unsure of what caused the death, but I afraid I know the answer. Dear friends, I stand before you guilty of having a part in the unfortunate event. Having forsaken P. J., I caused a sense of purposelessness in his life. He felt that he had played the part he was meant to, and was no longer needed in this world. I found him, dead, under some old school papers of mine. It was quite a shock to me, but his memory still lives in my heart. I buried him in my desk- I think he would have liked that. Someday, my grandchild will pull him out of the attic and see him, yellow and crumbling and faded. Then, I will tell them the story of Paper Journal, confident, friend, and travel sized notebook.
Now, a moment of silence for P. J.




Now my Blog would like to say something:
Hello, readers. I am THE BLOG. I am taking up the torch of P. J. and becoming Ms. Elliot's new writing companion. I also want to say that I was the one, though not intentionally, who killed P. J. I took his place, though I think it is for the best. We know he is in a better place, now.

Thank you Blog. You may all exit quietly and respectfully. Go and enjoy your notebooks while they still live. Do not make the same mistake I have. Thank you for listening- or rather, reading.

Your Gift

I stared at her. Just sat there staring.
       "Cut that out, Kate."
       "Um, Reagan? You just told me something I could have you thrown in a mental institute for. Don't you think I can be just a little freaked out?"
       "You believe me then?" Reagan's eyes were wide. She was desperate.
       "Well, there's no way you would lie to me about this. Still, I can't say..." What was I supposed to do? She just told me she had a gift- like a supernatural gift. What is a best friend supposed to say to that?
       "Do you want to see?"
       I nodded solemnly, looking her up and down. I'm not sure what I was looking for, lasers coming out of her eyes? She took off her shoes and socks and warily glanced around her. We were in the middle of a wood, so I didn't think anyone would be watching us. Reagan dug her now bare feet into the ground. She looked up at the sky and felt the tree trunk next to her. Ever so slowly, her body began to float upwards, about three feet above the ground... my friend could fly! I stood there with my mouth open so wide a whole swarm of bees could have flown in.
       She hung, suspended there for about thirty seconds. Her eyes glazed over like someone in a trance. Her hair was the first to change. It began moving like a strong wind was pulling it, but there wasn't so much as a breeze.  It twisted and fell, then something really weird happened. Well, weirder. Reagan's blonde hair began changing color. It started at the roots. Purples and blues and were literally climbing out of her scalp. And if that wasn't enough, her whole body shimmered with light. Sparks flew. It was almost as if she was controlling the light because it traveled in an arc from her body and didn't spread out. It was so beautiful.
       Next, her skin changed. Color seemed to come out from her bones and spread across her skin. The same violet shades from her hair covered her body. At this point, if a green, three-legged creature said, "Take me to your leader," I would have given it the president's address. Reagan was a freaking rainbow. Sparks danced through the trail of chromatic light. I had a hard time believing this was still my friend. I thought it couldn't get any more gorgeous.
       Then she started spinning.
       The arc of brilliance coming from Reagan twisted on itself and began rolling up, starting at the end furthest from us. It hovered in an orb above her head, then lost all its shape and spilled over her. Then, as a finale, the light intensified so that any trace of my friend disappeared and I had to turn away so I wouldn't be blinded.
       When I opened my eyes again, there was just Reagan falling to the grass and collapsing with exhaustion.
       "It... really... wears me out." She gasped between deep inhales. I helped her stand.
       "You're shaking." I said, worriedly.
       "Always do... after that." I waited for her to catch her breath, then we started walking home.
       "What did you do?" I was dying to know how she could do such an amazing thing.
       "Nothing!" Reagan shouted with surprising forcefulness.
       "Nothing? Are you kidding me? I mean you- I saw-"
       "I know what you saw! I didn't do anything. Sure, I floated in the air, but that's all. I can't fly or anything. I float when I do- whatever you want to call it. Whatever it is, it doesn't have a purpose. I just sparkle." She spit these last words out with such obvious disdain that I almost cried.
       "But it doesn't have to have a purpose, does it?" Didn't she know how much I would give to do something like that?
       "Have you ever heard of someone- like a superhero- who could do something really different and not have a reason for it? They saved people. I can't save people with what I do. What good is it?"
       "You don't need to save lives! Heck! That's a stupid reason not to like your- power I guess you could call it. The problem with people these days is they can't just enjoy things for what they are."
       "I don't get what you're saying."
        "Listen, Reagan. What you just did what probably the most beautiful thing I will ever see if I lived ten life times. You have that in you. Gosh, how can I get this through your head? You have such a strong capability of raw beauty. Just enjoy it. If there needs to be a purpose, how about humbling your best friend? It's so weird- I mean, I feel so happy knowing something that pulchritudinous exists."
       We stepped out of the woods and came out to a street in my neighborhood. She didn't say anything for a long while. I shoved my hands in my pockets, wondering if I had said too much. Finally, I heard her say very softly,
       "I think I understand."
       I smiled and then so did she.

I hope Reagan and Kate taught you something- or at least reminded you. We all have talents and special abilities. Not everyone uses them well. Sometimes, we don't know what to do with them.  In the meantime, enjoy what you have been given and share it with those around you.  ^"So Christ himself gave the apostles, the prophets, the evangelists, the pastors and teachers,  to equip his people for works of service, so that the body of Christ may be built up  until we all reach unity in the faith and in the knowledge of the Son of God and become mature, attaining to the whole measure of the fullness of Christ." Ephesians 4:11-13 Wait and pray for God to show you. In the meantime, enjoy what you have been given and share it with others. 
Have a wonderful day!

You Could Say

You could say, "I want ice cream."
Or you could say, "I have a certain craving for the cool sensation that comes from consuming that common dessert that consists of cream, sugar, and various flavorings."
You could say, "I hate math class."
Or you could say, "I strongly reprehend that despicable and monotonous class in which we are instructed about the numerical system, its patterns, and how to apply them to real life."
You could say "You need a bath."
Or you could say, "Dear friend, during the course of the morning, I seemed to notice a certain stench in the area. After further investigation, I concluded that said smell was a result of lack of hygiene on your part. I suggest you take appropriate action by alternately dousing yourself with water and scrubbing yourself with soap."

See how much more fun it is? So when school starts, don't complain about those vocab test!

Good-bye

       Every writer has something to say about good-byes. It is inevitable for them to write something about it because good-byes are very emotional for humans in general. Last night, I had to say good-bye to a very important person in my life. We know we will still see each other, but that didn't console me. People always call good-byes bittersweet. I think it's just bitter. The sweet comes when you get that letter in the mail from them, or you call them and hear there voice. But there is nothing sweet about the good-bye itself. I don't think I've ever actually bawled during a good-bye. I will cry before and after, but when I am actually saying the words, watching them drive away, nothing comes. The funny thing is that I hurt like I'm crying. My muscles are tense and my chest heaves, but I don't tear up. It's almost like throwing up when nothing is in your stomach. I think there is something in all of us so that it doesn't matter who we are saying good-bye to, we still are sad. Even if we are saying good-bye to our mortal enemy, I believe the something is triggered by the word and we think, There's nothing good about good-bye.

Letter From a Monster

Dear Human Child,

       I want to thank you sincerely for your wonderful hospitality. You have been most gracious to share your bedroom with me. I hope you don't mind, but I cleared out your stuff from my living space. You need to dust badly. Unfortunately, I became very hungry from shoving all those old sneakers and toys, so I ate them. I am very sorry. If it is any comfort, they were superb.
      I understand that you sleep at night. This may pose a problem as I work the night shift. I probably will make noises that will wake you up; I hope you will not mind. They are very odd noises, I must admit. My stomach for example makes atrocious growls. I get very hungry at night- so hungry, I could eat you!
       That was a joke.
       I hope we can be good friends.
From,
  The monster under your bed
PS Your neighbors are charming! Godzilla lives in the closet and has already invited me to lunch!

Cirlcle of School

       People talk about the circle of life. I don't think there is such a thing, but I do see recurring sequences. Such as the enthusiasm for school in a student. By the time August rolls around I can't wait to organize my locker and check off my assignments. I hardly get enough of the teachers' lectures and taking notes is the best past time ever. But each month becomes more and more monotonous. My locker gets messy. The lectures are droning and I get hand cramps from all the writing. School hours grow longer and Monday mornings appear without my permission. When May finally arrives, I hate having a routine. Then, almost too soon, summer arrives. You don't see your friends everyday, like before. Your brain activity drops drastically. Before you know it, you feel lazy and sick of having nothing to do. How many days until school starts?
It's happened to everybody; don't pretend like you don't know what I'm talking about. Unless you've gone to one of those all-year schools. Then you have never experienced this and we should all both pity and envy you.

A Memory

I saw a dead butterfly today.
It was completely dead.

Dead                 I hate that word.

Its wings were ragged and the yellow was fading.
The body was crumpled and stiff.

Dead                 It's not fair.

I know all butterflies die.
Why should this one get an exception?

Dead             It's such an ugly thing.

I don't think butterflies were meant to die.
They shouldn't rot at the side of the road.

Dead              It should never be called the end.

Nobody draws pictures of dead butterflies.
They are always alive and flying.

Dead                 I wish, I wish.

The butterfly was born, lived, and died.
And no one saw it.

Dead              But I did.

I didn't stop when I saw this butterfly.
I hardly gave it a thought when I passed it.

Dead            I hate that word.

But now I remember the butterfly.
I see it in my dreams.

Alive                 A beautiful yellow.

It flies higher and higher then disappears between the clouds.
It smiles right before that.

Alive               And blows me a kiss.

A Small Introduction

Of course, e. j. elliot is not my real name. I ask that those of you who do know my true identity keep it secret. I want to start this blog as a way of sharing my writings and thoughts with you. Not all of it will be well organized. Some of it will be terrible. But I hope that you enjoy it.
Remember: you can survive anything with jeans, boots, and coffee.