Thursday, April 10, 2014

A "Fanfic" About Demons (hopefully the first of many)

Hello, friends! This is Heather Rose, finally posting something I've been "working on" for months. If you are familiar with the great work by (the even greater) C. S. Lewis, The Screwtape Letters, you probably have an idea of the unique point of view that the book is written in. The book is a collection of letters (which follow a plot), written from a high-ranking demon, Screwtape, to his first-time tempter nephew, Wormwood.

Sunday, April 6, 2014

True Love

She closed her eyes, here it was again, the old familiar pain. she opened her eyes and read the text again. Tears welled up in her eyes, she wanted to scream but she couldn't... they would hear... they would ask what was wrong... she'd have to tell them... everything... she couldn't do that... no, she couldn't scream. There it was, the tearing ripping feeling in her chest. Her old familiar friend, the pain, the pain of him, the pain of his indifference.

Saturday, April 5, 2014

Maybe I am Insane

Trying to write fails me. I can only start something then get annoyed and bored with it then trash it. Every time I crumple a piece of paper Kyle tells me “You know what Hemingway said about that right?” I am reminded how Hemingway said crumpling paper would make you insane (or something of that nature).
I reply, “Screw Hemingway.” And he laughs because I love Hemingway.
I tried to write the same poem for a month once. I didn’t work, the words didn’t fit and the rhythm was off. I ripped pages from my note book and threw them, crumpled, into the trash can. Music didn't help. I would end up wrapped in the comforting blanket of familiar lyrics and forget about my own poetry. Reading poetry didn’t help either. I read “Digging” fifteen times in a row. It only made me passionate about hard work and ethics and all that rot. I gave up at the end of the month. I didn’t think it was worth my time. Maybe I was wrong.
The definition of insanity is doing the same thing over and over and over again expecting a different result. Sitting with a pen and a notebook and music never really changes the result. Paper usually ends up in the trash can. I usually end up with my head in my hands wondering what is wrong with me. Maybe Hemingway was right. Maybe I am insane.