[stylist] Old stuff sharing for fun

[KajunCutie926 at aol.com]

I have to tell you Bridget... I read this several  times... once from the 
prospective of myself as a teenage... and then also as  the mother of teens.  
Either way I can relate...  loved it from either  interpretation! I 
remember the 'angst' and read this with a smile and a nod of  understanding.. well 
done!  Sorry it's taken me so long to reply...it's  been sitting in my email 
waiting for me to reply but life kept showing me or it  aside..))
 
 
In a message dated 7/17/2011 4:33:44 P.M. Central Daylight Time,  
bpollpeter at hotmail.com writes:

Hello,

I found some old stuff I wrote a long, long time  ago.  I thought it
would be fun to share.  *smile*

This is  from when I was a teen.  I was very caught up in my angst.  I
was  the poster-girl for teen angst, and a lot of my writing  reflects
this.  *grin*  Enjoy.

The moon sat high in its  clear night sky.  Light trickled through the
bows of the trees  surrounding the still, small pond.  The glen shimmered
with the  illumination from the silvery orb lending a dream like quality
to the  setting.  A shape was discernable near the ground, and upon
closer  inspection the shape became a young girl.



Knees folded to her  chin, she sat on the bank.  Humming softly, she
tugged furiously at  the grass beneath her.  Anyone finding this scene
earlier would have  found her weeping with great shuddering sobs and
contorted features.   Now her face was still as she stared out towards
the pond's  reflection.  The only remains of sadness were held in her
grave  expression and the irridescent tears clinging to her long,  dark
lashes.



Slowly, softly, she spoke .  The words  were faint, but a slight breeze
ruffled the leaves as they swished and the  sheaves of grass rippled
faintly.  The breeze strengthened as her  voice intensified.



"I'm not crazy; I'm not crazy; I'm not  crazy."  Determination rang
through her chant.



She  stood, pacing, repeating her rhythmic mantra.  Suddenly she  screamed
as the wind wipped around her .  Fury flashed in her green  eyes, and a
stoney edge set around her features.  As quickly as the  wind started, it
died.



Fire blazed in her eyes even as her  face softened.  Dropping rigidly
back to the ground, tears streamed in  silence.  Thoughts swirled
together in a blur of colors and  shapes.  Rubbing her temples, she
attempted to alleviate the thudding  pressure pulsing incessantly.  Try
as she might, thoughts crowded in  .



Where can I go?



Different possibilities hummed  like a swarm of bees. The images fired
quickly like pictures in a  view-finder.  Clicking through them, she knew
none would bring a  resolution.



Is there anyone I can turn to?  Would anyone  lend a helping hand?  Who
will listen?



A knot grew in  her stomach as loneliness spread through her being.
Closing her eyes, she  resisted tears.  A quiet thump distracted her
tears as she pounded her  leg with a fist.



Mother's right, ; no one will ever want  me.  What good am I?  



She laughed bitterly.   The voice whispering from her depths tried
clinging to hope.  A  pregnant strength grew inside her forming like a
great round power, but  grief rose from her pores, and hope was difficult
to focus  on.



Standing, she brushed away bits of dirt and grass from her  loose gown,
and smoothed her windswept auburn locks.  Rummaging  through a hidden
pocket in the folds of her dress, she clasped tightly onto  a smooth,
hard object.



I'll go back and do as I'm told, but  one day, one day, I'll show them
all.



Moving quickly from  the glen that was her only sanctuary, she did not
suspect she would never  return to this childhood haunt.


Bridgit  Kuenning-Pollpeter
Editor, Slate & Style
Publication of the National  Federation of the Blind
NFB-Writers division  website:
<http://www.nfb-writers-division  <http://www.nfb-writers-division/>  .>
http://www.nfb-writers-division.net
<http://www.nfb-writers-division.net/>  


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